



=f^?< 



f .s^ 



T 



^/.^M. 



%A3 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



^ J^ 



I -'i:^'^ \y 













^ 




^ 



?ll^ 



Sacred Poems 



N. P. WILLIS. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

DARLEY, IIERPJCK. CHAPMAN, PARSONS, WHITNEY, 

LUMLEY, ElININGER, WHITE, AND HITCHCOCK. 




* * * "told of Ills biilh hv ni.'ht. 

Unto tliu i5liei)hci(ls a-5 tlioy w.itcbed.'" * * 



NEW YORK: 

CLARK & MAYNARD, P.UBLISHERS^ 

No. 5 Barclay Street. 

1868. 






I'liU'icil according to Act of Congress, in the year ISOS, ]>y 

CLARK & MAYNARD, 

III liio Clerk's Or.icc <>f tlic District Court of the United States l..r tiie 
iSoutliern District of New Yorl<. 



Electrotypf^d by Printed hy 

Smith & McDougal, C. A Alvokd, 

F4 Beelx-man St. 15 Vandewater St. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, 
Elaine, January 20, 1806. His father was the venerable 
Nathaniel Willis, who in 1816 founded the Boston Re- 
corder — the first religious newspaper ever published. The 
future poet received an excellent preparatory education, 
principally at the Boston Latin School, and then entered 
Yale College, where he graduated in 1827. Previously 
to this he had written and published anonymously some 
poems of great merit, chiefly of a religious character, and 
won a prize of fifty dollars — at that time a very liberal 
one — for the best poem, offered by the publishers of one 
of the annuals. Soon after leaving college, Mr. Willis 
collected and published his poems in a volume, which 
attracted no little attention. Some of the pieces in this 
collection are not unworthy to rank with the productions 
of the author's matured genius. 

Mr. Willis's tastes and talents induced him, instead of 
studying a profession, to devote himself to literature as 
a pursuit, and soon after his graduation, he assumed the 



lY BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

editorship of the " Legendary," a series of volumes of 
tales published by S, G. Goodrich. He next established, 
in Boston, the American MontJdy Magazine^ and rallied 
around it a circle of talented contributors, whom he 
inspired with his own ambition and zeal. To the pages 
of this work he contributed many brilliant papers ; and 
its Editor's Table, in which he treated of current literary 
topics, of art, books, and personal experience, was emi- 
nently sparkling and readable. At the expiration of two 
years, the Magazine was merged into the New York 
Mirror, the most flourishing literary journal of the dr:y, 
conducted by George P. Morris, and Mr. Willis gratified 
a long-cherished desire by visiting Europe. His flrst im- 
pressions of the Old World, received at the most enjoy- 
able period of life, were communicated to the Mirro^ in 
a series of sparkling letters, which met with a prodigious 
success. Europe had not then " been done to death ;"' 
and dashing sketches of its scenery, its art, its distin- 
guished men and women, as viewed by an ardent and 
gifted American, young, impressionable, with the keen 
perceptions of the poet and artist, came upon the public 
like a series of revelations. The style of these sketches 
was admirable, and possessed such a fascination that it 
was impossible to begin a detached extract without fm- 



BIOGIIAPIIICAL SKEJClf. V 

ishing the paragraph to the close. Mr. Willis was wtll 
received abroad, and enjoyed facilities which gave him 
the entree of the highest and best circles of society on 
the continent and in England. His portraits of prom- 
inent personages -of the time, — such as Moore, Lady 
Blessington, D'Israeli, Bulwer, D'Orsay, — were graphic 
and artistic In European society Mr. Willis well sus- 
tained the reputation of a refined and high-toned Amer- 
ican gentleman, and in certain trying circumstances 
manifested a chivah-ous spirit which did him the high- 
est honor. 

While residing in England, in 1835, Mr. Willis mar- 
ried Mary Leighton Stace, a daughter of -Commissary 
General William Stace, commander of the Royal Arsenal 
at Woolwich, an officer who had seen much service, 
and greatly distinguished himself at Waterloo. 

Returning to this country, Mr. Willis purchased a 
small farm in the valley of the Susquehanna, where he 
built a pretty cottage, in which he lioped to pass the 
remainder of his days in rural and literary employment. 
Ilis " Letters from Under a Bridge," written from " Glen- 
mary," contain some of the most beautiful and truthful 
pictures of American country life ever penned. With 
a felicity which only belongs to high art, he wove out 



VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

of the simplest materials, out of quiet landscapes, and 
everyday incidents, spells which have entranced readers 
of all tastes. A daughter, Imogen, was born to Mr. 
Willis in this sylvan solitude. 

But trouble came to the inmates of Glenmary. Mrs. 
Willis's father died — Mr. Willis's pubhshers failed; and 
it became necessary for the dreamer to forsake the quiet 
Vale of the Susquehanna, and plunge once more into the 
battle of life. Removing to New York, he established, 
in connection with the late Dr. Porter, a literary journal 
called the Corsair. During a brief visit to Europe, 
Mr. Willis engaged Mr. Thackeray among his foreign 
contributors, and while there published a volume of his 
poetry and prose, under the title of "Loiterings of 
Travel," two plays, '' Bianca Yisconti," and " Tortesa the 
Usurer," the latter of which has proved successful on the 
stage, and at the same time wrote the letter press 
for two illustrated works published by George Virtue, 
descriptive of the scenery of the United States and 
Ireland. 

Finding, on his return to America, that Dr. Porter 
had become discouraged with the Corsair^ and aban- 
doned it, he joined his former partner, Gen. Morris, in 
a paper called the Eoening Mirror. Intense application 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Vll 

soon began to tell upon his health, and the shock occa- 
sioned by the death of his wife completely prostrated him. 
He again went abroad, but after a brief stay, during 
which he was attacked by a brain fever, he returned 
to this country. The Evening Mirror, the daily prepar- 
ation of which was found to be too trying a task both 
to Mr. Willis and Gen. Morris, was transferred to other 
hands, and they established the Home Journal^ a literary 
weekly, which from the outset was eminently successful. 
From the date of its commencement, Mr. Willis con- 
centrated all his efforts on this publication, the popu- 
laiity of which amply repaid the loving care bestowed 
upon its columns. 

In 1846 Mr. Willis married Cornelia, only daughter 
of Hon. Joseph Grinnell, of New Bedford, Mass. Their 
residence from that time until his decease, was on a 
charming estate on the banks of the Hudson, above 
West Point, to which he gave the name of " Idlewild." 
Here he divided his time between his literary and do- 
mestic cares, the culture and the adornment of his estate, 
and the regimen and exercise which his infirm health 
demanded, with an occasional visit to New York, to 
glance at the movements of society and art in that great 
city, gathering from all his experiences, material for those 



VIU mOGRAPniCAL SKETCH. 

charming essays and letters which graced the editorial 
columns of the Home Journal. 

Few American authors were known to a wider circle 
of readers than Mr. Willis. He came before the public for 
the first time at a moment when our literature was 
passing from the delicate bloom of infancy to the florid 
and lusty vigor of early youth. Everything was in a 
state of transition ; everything was unsettled ; but every- 
thing was rich with the glow of dawning promise. Irving 
was in the fullness of his fame; Bryant Ixad won the 
vernal honors Avhich have since ripened into glorious 
maturity; R, H. Dana had struck a chord in many hearts 
by the mystic strains of his melancholy music; Percival 
was hailed by waiting and sanguine spirits as the morning- 
star of a new poetical day ; Pieipont had gathered bright 
laurels on the banks where " Hermon sheds its dews," 
and "decked his couch with Sharon's deatJiless rose." 
Everett had returned from his quest of knowledge in 
distant lands, radi-ant with enthusiasm and hope; Chan- 
ning had sent an electric spark into the bosom of society 
by his seraphic discussion of worldly themes amidst the 
solemnities of the pulpit ; Lyman Beecher was disturbing 
the repose of the dry bones in the valley of vision by 
his athletic sledge-hammer blows on the heresies of 



BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCH. IX 

Boston ; Longfellow was beginning to gather around 
him a cluster of gracious sympathies by the tender pathos 
of his imagination and the sweet felicities of his diction. 

Mr. Willis first attracted notice from those who were 
eagerly watching every sign of promise in our youthful 
literature, by his scriptural poems. He had been brought 
up under the robust religious influences of New England 
orthodoxy ; the bracing air of Andover and Park street 
filled his veins with the ruddy drops of stern conviction ; 
from the lips of his admirable mother, who was beloved 
and honored by all who knew her, the lessons of piety 
distilled upon his heart ; and if, in later life, the early 
cloud and morning dew left no trace of their influence on 
the character, they gave an impulse to his poetical nature, 
and suggested chaste and lovely images to his fancy. His 
memory was familiar with the language of the Bible. His 
heart had been touched by its simple grandeur. The 
domestic scenes of the old Hebrew life kindled his warm- 
est sympathy, and attached themselves to his dearest 
associations with home. Gifted with the art of clothing 
those scenes in the splendor of modern verse, without 
impairing their racy, antique flavor, he threw a charm 
around his descriptions which fascinated alike the lovers 
of the Bible and the amateurs of poetry. His success 



X BIOGRAPHICAL SKliTCII. 

was perfect. His name became a household word in 
many families who had learned from his sweet utterances 
that the sentiment of piety was no foe to the indulgence 
of the imagination. He was welcomed as a new star in 
the horizon of American letters. His sense of beauty in 
outward things was extraordinary. His eye was strongly 
affected by the harmonies of color and form. In dress, 
in furniture, in every kind of decoration, he had a lively 
instinct of the fit and the becoming. If his personal 
tastes had a tendency towards the fantastic, it was an ex- 
ception to the general soundness of his judgment in 
aesthetic affairs. 

Among the traits of Mr. Willis's personal character, which 
his friends can dwell on with the warmest satisfaction, 
was the vigorous persistence with which he engaged in 
the battle of life, in spite of an accumulation of physical 
infirmities. For many years previous to his death he had 
enjoyed scarcely an interval of good health. He was 
often subject not only to the languors of chronic disease, 
but to the agonies of sharp and sudden attacks. His 
endurance of pain was like that of a martyr. His suflfei-- 
ings often furnished him with the theme of his most 
brilliant essays. He had the rare gift of bringing his 
private experiences before the public without the appear- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XI 

ance of obtrusive egotism. With the exception of Henry 
Heine, we hardly know an instance of a man of letters 
being doomed to such protracted torments from bodily 
disease. The power with which he bore up under such 
terrible inflictions presents a rare example of courage and 
fortitude — the genuine elements of heroism. Let those 
who view him merely as the gay and elegant man about 
town, the retailer of sparkling hon-mots, and the writer of 
frivo'ous superficial humor, remember the days of dark- 
ness which he so bravely encountered, and the dauntless 
zeal with which he wrought at his post until his counte- 
nance was changed in the shadow of death. 

Mr. Willis, moreover, exhibited a certain kindliness and 
generosity of disposition, which, if it rested on no pro- 
found basis in his nature or his principles, gave an interest 
to his companionship and secured him the cordial friend- 
ship of men with whose graver and more rigid traits of 
character he habitually cherished but little sympathy. His 
circle of intimate acquaintance included persons of the 
widest contrast in opinions, manners, and cultivation. 
Among them were to be found the popular preacher, the 
erudite divine, the stern reformer, and men of mark in 
political life and the world of business. He dispensed the 
hospitalities of Idlewild — a name which his pen has made 



Xll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

classical — with elegance and liberality. His door was 
open wide even to the casual visitor, and to ''the men 
who sought him he was sweet as summer." Free from 
the faintest spark of literary jealousy, he took no part in 
the "quarrels of authors,'' looked with cheerful com- 
placency on the success of his rivals, and always had a 
friendly word for the youthful aspirants who were strug- 
gUng in the lists for distinction in letters. His sympathy 
with their first timid efforts was often their stepping-stone 
to renown. 

He will be remembered, not as a philosopher or a celestial 
genius; but as a man eminently human, with almost unique 
endowments, who contributed his share to the good-will, 
cheerful enjoyment, and intellectual life of the present. 

Mr. Willis, as stated, was subject, for several of the later 
years of his life, to severe suffering from disease, the seat 
of which was chiefly in the brain. His decease occurred 
on the 20th of January, 1867, at Idlewild, being just 
sixty-one years of age. His wife and several children sur- 
vive him. 



CONTENTS. 



SACRED POEMS. 

PAGK 

The Healing of the Daughter of .Tairus 17 

The Lepek 21 

David's Grief for his Child 27 

The Sacrifice of Abraham 32 

The Shun AMITE 36 

Jephthah's Daughter 40 

Absalom 44 

Christ's Entrance into Jekusalkm 48 

Baptism of Christ 51 

Scene in Gethsemane 53 

The Widow of Nain 55 

Hagak in the Wilderness 58 

Kizpaii with her Sons, (the day before they were hanged 

ON GiBEAIl) 63 

Lazarus and Mary 66 

Christ blessing little Childken 73 

Christ's Mothkr 78 

Hannah and Samuei 81 

A Bible Story for Mothers 86 

Thoughts while making the Grave of a new born Child... 90 
On the Departure of the Rev. Mr. White from his Parish, 

WHEN chosen President of Wabash College 02 

BiBTH-DAY VbUSES 95 



XIV CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To MY Mother from the Apennines 98 

Lines on leaving Europe 99 

A TRUE Incident 102 

The Mother to her Child 104 

A Thought over a Cradle 106 

On a Picture of a Girl Leading her blind Mother thuougu 

THE Wood 107 

Contemplation lOB 

On THE Death of a Missionary 110 

On the Picture of a '* Child tired of Play" 113 

A Child's First Lmpression of a Star 115 

On witnessing a Baptism 116 

Heveiue at Glenmarv 117 

To A City Pigeon 119 

The Belfry Pigeon 119 

Saturday Afternoon 1"21 

The Sabbath 122 

Dedication Hymn 124 

Hymn 125 



SACRED POEMS 



SACRED POEMS 



THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 

Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve 
Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl 
Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain 
Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance — 
Her thin pale fingers clasped within the hand 
Of the heart-broken Euler, and her breas'-, 
Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 
The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, 
And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind, 
The dark hds hfted from her languid eyes. 
And her slight fingers moved, and heavily 
She turned upon her pillow. He was there — 
The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd 
Into his face unlil her sight grew dim 
With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh 
Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, 
She gently drew his hand upon her lips. 
And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk 
Upon his knees, and in the drapery 
Of the rich curtains buried up his face ; 
And when the twilight fell, the silken folds 
Stirr'd with his prayer, but the sliglit hand he held 
Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear, 
2* 



18 1 V I L L I S ' S POEMS. 

In the dead, utter silence, that a breath 
Came through her nostrils— and her temples gave 
To his nice touch no pulse — and, at her mouth, 
He held the lightest curl that on her neck 
Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze 
Ached with its deathly stillness. * * * '•' "^ 

* .t. * * * * It was night — 
And, softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee, 
Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, 
Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon. 
The breaking waves played low upon the beach 
Their constant music, but the air beside 
Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice. 
In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, 
Seem'd like some just-born harmony in the air, 
Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock. 
With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, 
He stood and taught the people. At his feet 
Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell, 
And staff— for they had waited by the sea 
Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'd 
For his wont teachings as he came to land. 
His hair was pa: ted meekly on his brow. 
And the long curls from off his shoulders fell, 
As he lean'd forward earnestly, and still 
The same calm cadence, passionless and deep — 
And in his looks the same mild majesty — 
And in his mien the sadness mix'd with power- 
Filled them with love and wonder. Suddenly. 



WILLIS S POEMS. 10 

As on his words entrancedly they hung, 

The crowd divided, and among them stood 

Jairus the Ruler. With his flowing robe 

Gathered in haste about his loins, he came, 

And fix'd his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew 

The twelve disciples to their Master's side ; 

And silently the people shnmk away. 

And left the haughty Ruler in the midst 

Alone. A moment longer on the face 

Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, 

And, as the twelve looked on him, by the light 

Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear 

Steal to his silver beard; and, drawing nigh 

Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem 

Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands 

Press'd it upon his Hds, and murmur'd low, 

^^ Master ! my daughter T — ***** ^k 

****** ^i^Q same silvery light, 
That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, 
Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals. 
As at the door he stood, and welcomed in 
Jesus and his disciples. All was still. 
The echoing vestibule gave back the slide 
Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam 
Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, 
Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, 
As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps 
He trod the winding stair ; but ere he touch'd 
The latchet, from within a whisper came. 



2C WILLIS'S POEMS. 

" Trouble the Master not— for she is dead /" 
And his faint hand fiell nerveless at his side, 
And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice 
Choked in its utterance ; — but a gentle hand 
Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear 
The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, 
" She is not dead — hut sleepeth.'^ 

They passed in. 
The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns 
Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke 
Carl'd indolently on the chamber walls. 
The silken curtains slumbered in their folds — 
Not even a tassel stirring in the air — 
And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, 
And prayed inaudibly, the Ruler heard 
The quickening division of his breath 
As he grew earnest inwardly. There came 
A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face ; 
And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved 
The silken curtains silently apart. 
And look'd upon the maiden. 

Like a form 
Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — 
The linen vesture folded on her breast, 
And over it her white transparent hands. 
The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. 
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, 
And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 

The breathing curve was mockingly like life ; 
And round beneath the faintly tinted skin 
Ran the light branches of the azure veins ; 
And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, 
Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow. 
Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose 
Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears 
In curls of glossy blackness, and about 
Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hunj 
Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 
'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised 
Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 
The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, 
" Maiden I Arise /"—and suddenly a flush 
Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips 
And through her cheek the rallied color ran , 
And the still outline of her graceful form 
Stirred in the linen vesture ; and she clasp'd 
The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes 
Full on his beaming countenance— arose 1 



21 



THE LEPER 



" Room for the leper ! Room 1" And, as he came. 
The cry pass'd on—" Room for the leper ! Room !" 
Sunrise was slanting on the city gates 



22 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills 
The early risen poor were coming in, 
Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up 
Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum 
Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, 
And all that in a city murmur swells — 
Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear, 
Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick 
Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase 
The death-like images of the dark away. 
" Room for the leper !" And aside they stood — 
Matron and child, and pitiless manhood — all 
Who met him on his way — and let him pass. 
And onward through the open gate he came, 
A leper with the ashes on his brow, 
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip 
A covering, stepping painfully and slow, 
And with a difficult utterance, like one 
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down. 
Crying, "Unclean I Unclean!" 

'Twas now the first 
Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves, 
Whose shadows lay so still upon his path. 
Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye 
Of Judah's palmiest noble. He was young, 
And eminently beautiful, and life 
Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip, 
And sparkled in his glance ; and in his mien 
There was a gracious pride that every eye 



WILLIS'S P O K M S . 



23 



Follow'd with benisons — and this was he ! 

With the soft airs of summer there had come 

A torpor on his frame, which not the speed 

Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast 

Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs 

The spirit to its bent, might drive away. 

The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; 

Dimness crept o'er his eye ; a drowsy sloth 

Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien, 

With all its loftiness, seem'd struck with eld. 

Even his voice was changed— a languid moan 

Taking the place of the clear silver key ; 

And brain and sense grew faint, as if the hght 

And very air were steep'd in sluggishness. 

He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, 

Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein 

Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise 

The arrowy jereed hke an aspen shook. 

Day after day, he lay as if in sleep. 

His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, 

Circled with livid purple, cover' d him. 

And then his nails grew black, and fell away 

From the dull flesh about them, and the hues 

Deepen'd beneath the hard unmoisten'd scales. 

And from their edges grew the rank white hair, 

— And Helon was a leper ! 

Day was breaking, 
When at the altar of the temple stood 
The holy priest of God. The incense lamp 



24 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant 

Swell'd through the hollow arches of the roof 

Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, 

Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. 

The echoes of the melancholy strain 

Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up. 

Struggling with weakness, and bow'd down his head 

Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off 

His costly raiment for the leper's garb ; 

And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip 

Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, 

"Waiting to hear his doom : — 

Depart ! depart, child 
Of Israel, from the temple of thy God ! 
For He has smote thee with his chastening rod , 

And to the desert-wild, 
From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, 
That from thy plague His people may be free. 

Depart ! and come not near 
The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; 
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er ; 

And stay thou not to hear 
Yoices that call thee in the way ; and fly 
From all who in the wilderness pass by. 

Wet not thy burning lip 
In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; 
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 25 

Nor kneel thee down to dip 
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, 
By desert well or river's grassy brink ; 

And pass thou not between 
The weary traveller and the cooling breeze •, 
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 

Where human tracks are seen ; 
Nor milk the goat that browse th on the plain, 
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. 

And now depart! and when 
Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, 
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Ilim 

Who, from the tribes of men, 
Selected thee to feel His chastening rod. 
Depart 1 leper ! and forget not God ! 

And he went forth — alone ! not one of all 
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
Was woven in the fibres of the heart 
Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
Comfort unto him. Yea — he went his way, 
Sick, and heart-broken, and alone — to die 1 
For God had cursed the leper! 



And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool 
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch'd 
3 



26 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

The loathsome water to his fever'd lips, 
Praying that he might be so blest — to die I 
Footsteps approach'd, and, with no strength to flee, 
He drew the covering closer on his lip. 
Crying, " Unclean ! unclean !" and in the folds 
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, 
He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er 
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name — 
" Helon !" The voice was like the master-tone 
Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet ; 
And the dull pulses of disease awoke, 
And for a moment beat beneath the hot 
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. 
"Helon! arise 1" and he forgot his curse, 
And rose and stood before Him. 

Love and awe 
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye 
As he beheld the Stranger. He was not 
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow 
The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; 
No followers at His back, nor in His hand 
Buckler, or sword, or spear, — yet in his mien 
Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, 
A kingly condescension graced His lips. 
The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. 
His garb was simple, and His sandals worn ; 
His stature modell'd with a perfect grace ; 
His countenance the impress of a God, 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 27 

Touch'd with the open innocence of a child • 

His eye was blue and calm, as in the sky 

In the serenest noon ; His hair unshorn 

Fell to his shoulders ; and His curling beard 

The fulness of perfected manhood bore. 

He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, 

As if His heart were moved, and, stooping down, 

He took a httle water in His hand 

And laved the sufferer's brow, and said, ''Be clean!" 

And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood 

Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, 

And his dry palms grew moist, and on his lips 

The dewy softness of an infant's stole. 

His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down 

Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipp'd him. 



DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 

'TwAS daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn 

Drew the night's curtain, and touch'd silently 

The eyelids of the king. And David woke. 

And robed himself, and pray'd. The inmates, now, 

Of the vast palace were astir, and feet 

Glided along the tesselated floors 

With a pervading murmur, and the fount 

Whose music had been all the night unheard, 

Play'd as if light had made it audible ; 

And each one, waking, bless'd it unaware. 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 

The fragrant strife of sunshine with the morn 
Sweeten'd the air to ecstasy 1 and now 
The king's wont was to lie upon his couch 
Beneath the sky- roof of the inner court, 
And, shut in from the world, but not from heav'n, 
Play with his loved son by the fountain's lip ; 
For, with idolatry confess' d alone 
To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp, 
He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when 
The golden selvedge of his robe was heard 
Sweeping the marble pavement, from within 
Broke forth a child's laugh suddenly, and words — 
Articulate, perhaps, to his heart only — 
Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy- 
An infant cherub, leaping as if used 
To hover with that motion upon wings, 
And marvellously beautiful ! His brow 
Had the inspired up-lift of the king's, 
And kingly was his infantine regard ; 
But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mould 
Of Bathsheba's — the hue and type of love, 
Rosy and passionate — and oh, the moist 
Unfathomable blue of his large eyes 
Gave out its light as twihght shows a star, 
And drew the heart of the beholder in ! — 
And this was like his mother. 

David's lips 
Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awhile 
He closed the lids upon his moisten' d eyes, 



WILLIS'S POE^IS. 5 

And, with tlie round cheek of the nestUng boy 
Press'd to his bosom, sat as if afraid 
That but the hfting of his hds might jar 
The heart-cup's over-fuhiess. Unobserved, 
A servant of the outer court had knelt 
Waiting before him ; and a cloud the while 
Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven ; 
And, as the chill of the withdrawing sun 
Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes 
And frown'd upon the servant — for that hour 
Was hallow'd to his heart and his fair child, 
And none might seek him. And the king arose, 
And with a troubled countenance look'd up 
To the fast-gathering darkness ; and, behold, 
llie servant bowed himself to earth, and said, 
"Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord !" 
And David's lips grew wliite, and with a clasp 
Which wrung a murmur from the frighted child, 
He drew him to his breast, and covered him 
With the long foldings of his robe, and said, 
" I will come forth. Go now !" And lingeringly 
With kisses on the fair uplifted brow. 
And mingled words of tenderness and prayer 
Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips, 
He gave to them the child, and bowed his head 
Upon his breast with agony. And so. 
To hear the errand of the man of Grod, 
He fearfully went forth. 



so WILLIS'S POEMS. 

It was the morning of the seventh day. 
A hush was in the palace, for all eyes 
Had woke before the morn ; and they who di'ew 
The curtains to let in the welcome Hght, 
Moved in their chambers with unslipper'd feet, 
And listen'd breathlessly. And still no stir ! 
The servants who kept watch without the door 
Sat motionless ; the purple casement-shades 
From the low windows had been rolled away, 
To give the child air ; and the flickering light 
That, all the night, within the spacious court. 
Had drawn the watcher's eyes to one spot only, 
Paled with the sunrise and fled in. 

And hush'd 
With more than stillness was the room where lay 
The king's son on his mother's breast His locks 
Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirrM — 
So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down, 
She watched his breathless slumber. The low moan 
That from his lips all night broke fitfully. 
Had silenced with the daybreak ; and a smile — 
Or something that would fain have been a smile — 
Play'd in his parted mouth ; and though his lids 
Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes, 
His senses seemed all peacefully asleep. 
And Bathsheba in silence bless'd the morn — 
That brought back hope to her ! But when the kin^ 
Heard not the voice of the complaining child, 
Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir — 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 3} 

But morning there — so welcomeless and still — 

He groan'd and turn'd upon his face. The nights 

Had wasted ; and the mornings come ; and days 

Crept through the sky, unnumber'd by the king, 

Since the child sicken'd ; and, without the door. 

Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had lain — 

Listening only to the moans that brought 

Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice 

Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caress, 

In loving utterance all broke with tears. 

Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there, 

And fiU'd his prayer with agony. God I 

To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far ! 

How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on I 

And when the spirit, mournfully, at last, 

Kneels at thy throne, how cold, how distantly 

The comforting of friends falls on the ear — 

The anguish they would speak to, gone to Thee • 

But suddenly the watchers at the door 
Bose up, and they who ministered within 
Crept to the threshold and look'd earnestly 
Where the king lay. And still, while Bathsheba 
Held the unmoving child upon her knees. 
The curtains were let down, and all came fortli, 
And, gathering with fearful looks apart. 
Whispered together. 

And the king arose 
And jrazcd on them a moment, and with voice 



.S2 >V I L L i S ' S POEMS, 

Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd, 

" Is the child dead ?" Tliey answer'd, " He is dead T 

But when they look'd to see him fall again 

Upon his face, and rend himself and weep — 

For, while the child was sick, his agony 

Would bear no comforters, and they had thought 

His heartstrings with the tidings must give way — 

Behold ! his face grew calm, and, with his robe 

Gather'd together like his kingly wont, 

He silently went in. 

And David came. 
Robed and anointed, forth, and to the house 
Of God went up to pray. And he return' d. 
And they set bread before him, and he ate — • 
And when they marvell'd, he said, " Wierefo7~e mourn ? 
The child is dead, and I shall go to him — 
But he will not return to me." 



THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. 

Morn breaketh in the east. The purple clouds 

Are putting on their gold and violet. 

To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. 

Sleep is upon the waters and the wind ; 

And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf 

To her mnjestic master, sleeps. As yet 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 33 

There is no mist upon the deep bhie sky, 

And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms 

Of crimson roses in a holy rest. 

How hallo w'd is the hour of morning ! meet — 

Ay, beautifully meet — for the pure prayer. 

The patriarch standeth at his tented door, 

With his white locks uncover' d. 'Tis his wont 

To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient ; 

And at that hour the awful majesty 

Of man who talketh often with his God, 

Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow 

As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth 

To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, 

And boweth to his staff as at the hour 

Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun — 

He looketh at its pencill'd messengers, 

Coming in golden raiment, as if all 

Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. 

Ah, he is waiting till it herald in 

The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son ! 

Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands 
Watching the steps of Abraham and her child 
Along the dewy sides of the far hills, 
And praying that her sunny boy faint not. 
Would she have watch'd their path so silently, 
If she had known that he was going up, 
E'en in liis fair-haired beauty, to be slain 
As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod 
Together onward, patriarch and child — 



34 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

The bright sua throwing back the old mfn's shade 

In straight and fair proportions, as of one 

Wliose years were freshly number'd. He stood up. 

Tall in his vigorous strength ; and, like a tree 

Eooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. 

His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, 

And left his brow uncover' d ; and his face, 

Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief 

Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth 

Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. 

But the young boy — he of the laughing eye 

And ruby lip — the pride of life was on him. 

He seem'd to drink the morning. Sun and dew, 

And the aroma of the spicy trees. 

And all that giveth the delicious East 

Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light 

Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts 

With love and beauty. Every thing he met, 

Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing 

Of bird or insect, or the palest dye 

Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path ; 

And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, 

As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung 

Away to some green spot or clustering vine, 

To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree 

And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place ; 

And he would crouch till the old man came by, 

Then bound before him with his childish laugh, 

Stealing a look behind him playfully, 

To see if he had made his father smile. 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 35 

The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up 

From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat 

Came like a sleep upon the deUcate leaves, 

And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. 

Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step, 

Firm and unfaltering ; turning not aside 

To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips 

In the sweet vraters of the Syrian wells. 

Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness 

Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot 

To toss his sunny hair from oflf his brow. 

And spring for the fresh flowers and Hght wings 

As in the early morning ; but he kept 

Close by his father's side, and bent his head 

Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, 

Lifting it not, save now and then, to steal 

A look up to the face whose sternness awed 

His childishness to silence. 

It was noon — 
And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself, 
And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. 
He could not look upon his son, and pray ; 
But, with his hand upon the clustering curls 
Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God 
Would nerve him for that hour. * * * * 

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ * He rose tip, and laid 
The wood upon the altar. All was done. 
He stoofl a moment — and a deep, quick flush 



36 WILLIS'S POEMS, 

Pass'd o'er his countenance ; and then he nerved 
His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke — 
" Isaac ! my only son !" — The boy look'd up : 
" Wiiere is the lamb, my father ?" — Oh the tones. 
The sweet, famihar voice of a loved child ! — 
What would its music seem at such an hour ! — 
It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held 
His loved, his beautiful, his only son. 
And lifted up his arm, and call'd on God — 
And lo I God's angel stay'd him — and he fell 
Upon his face, and wept. 



THE SHUNAMMITE. 



It was a sultry day of summer-time. 

The sun pour'd down upon the ripen' d grain 

With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves 

Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills 

Stood still, and the divided flock were all 

Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots, 

And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd 

As if the air had fointed, and the pulse 

Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat. 

" Haste thee, my child l" the Syrian mother said, 
" Thy father is athirst"— and, from the depths 



\V I L L I 8 8 P O E AI S , 3 < 

Oi the cool well under the leaning tree, 

She drew refreshing water, and with thought'3 

Of God's sweet goodness stirrhig at her heart, 

She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way 

Committed him. And he went lightly on, 

With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool 

Stone vessel, and his little naked feet 

Lifted with watchful care ; and o'er the hills, 

And through the light green hollows where the iambs 

Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, 

Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts. 

Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with broAvs 

Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down. 

Childhood is restless ever, and the boy 
Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree, 
But with a joyous industry went forth 
Into the reapei''s places, and bound up 
His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly 
The p'iant Aviths out of the shining straw — 
Cheering their labor on, till they forgot 
The heat and weariness of their stooping toil 
In the beguiling of his playful mirth. 
Presently he was silent, and his eye 
Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand 
Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breasx 
Heaving with the suppression of a cry, 
He utter'd a faint murmur, And fell back 
Upon the loosenM sh^afj iriserisible. 



38 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

They bore him to his mother, and he lay 
Upon her knees till noon — and then he died ! 
She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand 
Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon 
The dreamy languor of his listless eye. 
And she had laid back .all his sunny curls 
And kiss'd his delicate hp, and lifted him 
Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong — 
His beauty was so unlike death 1 She lean'd 
Over him now, that she might catch the low 
Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd 
To love when he was slumbering at her side 
In his unconscious infancy — 

'' —So still ! 
'Tis a soft sleep ! How beautiful he lies, 
With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins 
Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek ! 
How could they say that he would die ! Oh God 1 
I could not lose him ! I have treasured all 
His childhood in my heart, and even now, 
As he has slept, my memory has been there, 
Counting like treasures all his winning ways — 
His unforgotten sweetness : — 

"—Yet so still!— 
How like this breathless slumber is to death ! 
I could believe that in that bosom now 
There were no pulse — it beats so languidly ! 
I cannot see it stir ; but his red lip ! 
Death would not be so very beautiful ! 
And that half smile — would death have left thai there r 



Willis's poems. 39 

— And should I not have felt that he would die ? 
And have I not wept over him ? — and praj'd 
Morning and night for him ? and could he die ? 
— No — God will keep him ! He will be my pride 
Many long years to come, and his fair hair 
Will darken like his father's, and his eye 
Be of a deeper blue when he is grown ; 
And he will be so tall, and I shall look 
With such a pride upon him ? — He to die !" 
And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, 
And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think 
That such fair things could perish. — 

— Suddenly 
Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled 
From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees 
Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd 
His forehead, as she dallied with his hair — 
And it was cold — like clay ! Slow, very slow, 
Came the misgiving that her child was dead. 
She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed 
In a dumb prayer for strength, and then she took 
His little hand and press'd it earnestly — 
And put her lip to his — and look'd again 
Fearfully on him — and, then bending low, 
She whisper'd in his ear, *'My son! — my son!' 
And as the echo died, and not a sound 
Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still — 
Motionless on her knee — the truth would come 
And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart 
Were crush'd, she lifted him and heM him close 



40 Willis's poems. 

Into her bosom — with a mother's thought — 
As if death had no power to touch him tliere ! 
********* 
Tlie man of God came forth, and led the child 
Unto his mother, and went on his way. 
And he was there — her beautiful — her own — 
Living and smiling on her — with his arras 
Folded about her neck, and his warm breath 
Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear 
Tlie music of his gentle voice once more! 



JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 

She stood befoi'e her father's gorgeous tent, 
To listen for his coming. Her loose hair 
Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud 
Floating around a statue, and the wind, 
Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape 
Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd 
Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised 
Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven. 
Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. 
Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft 
Of a pomegranate blossom ; and her neck, 
Just where the cheek was melting to its curve 
With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, 
Was shaded, as if lisfht had fallen oflT, 



A>- I L L I S S POEMS. 41' 

Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling 

Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose 

Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, 

Like nothing but a lovely wave of light, 

To meet the arching of her queenly neck. 

Her countenance was radiant with love. 

She look'd like one to die for it — a being 

Whose whole existence was the pouring out 

Of rich and deep affections. 

Onward came 
The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes 
Rang sharply on the ear at intervals ; 
And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts 
Returning from the battle, pour'd from far, 
Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. 
They came, as earthly conquerors always come. 
With blood and splendor, revelry and wo. 
The stately horse treads proudly — he hath tro I 
The brow of death, as well. The chariot- wheels 
Of warriors roll magnificently on — 
Their weight hath crush'd the fallen. Man is there- 
Majestic, lordly man — with his sublime 
Aud elevated brow, and godlike frame ; 
Lifting his crest in triumph — for his heel 
Hath trod the dying like a wmc-press dow.i ! 

The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on 
Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set 
And his stern lip ourl'd slightly, as if pr.'iiso 
4* 



42 W I r> L 1 S ' S P O E M s . 

Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, 

But free as India's leopard ; and his mail, 

Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, 

Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. 

His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look 

Of his dark lofty eye, and bended brow, 

Might quell the lion. He led on ; but thoughts 

Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins 

Grew visible upon his swai'thy brow. 

And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. 

He trod less firmly ; and his restless eye 

G-lanced forward frequently, as if some ill 

He dared not meet, were there. His home was near 

And men were thronging, with that strange delight 

They have in human passions, to observe 

The struggle of his feelings with his pride. 

He gazed intently forward. The tall firs 

Before his door were motionless. The leaves 

Of the sw(;et aloe, and the clustering vines 

Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye, 

Unchanged and beautiful ; and one by one. 

The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, 

And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd 

Of silent and familiar things, stole up. 

Like the recover'd passages of dreams. 

He strode on rapidly. A moment more. 

And he had reach'd his home ; when lo ! there sprang 

One with a bounding footstep, and a brow 

Of light, to meet him. Ohj how beautifid ! — 

Her proud -eye flashing like a sun-lit gem — 



^^• 1 1- L I s s POEMS. 43 

A.nd her luxuriant hair! — 'twas Uke the sweep 

Of a dark wing in visions. He stood still, 

As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw 

Her arms about his neck — he heeded not. 

She call'd him " Father" — but he answer'd not. 

She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wi oth ? 

There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. 

Had sickness seized him ? She unclasp'd his helm. 

And laid her white hand gently on his brow, 

And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. 

The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, 

And spoke the name of God, in agony. 

She knew tliat he was stricken, then ; and rush'd 

Again into his arms ; and, with a flood 

Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer 

That he would breathe his agony in words. 

He told her — and a momentary flush 

Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul 

Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd ; and she stood 

Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well — 

And she would die. "■ * * "■ * 

The sun had well nigh set. 
The fire was on the altar ; and the priest 
Of the High God was theie. A pallid man 
Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven 
As if he would have pray'd, but had no words — 
And she who was to die, the calmest one 
In Israel at that hour, stood up alone, 
And waited for the .sun to set. Her face 



44 WILLISS POEMS. 

Was pale, but veiy beautiful — her lip 
Had a more delicate outline, and the tint 
Was deeper; but her countenance was like 
The majesty of angels. 

The sun set — 
And she was dead — but not by violence. 



ABSALOM 



The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung iow 

On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd 

Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 

Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 

The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves 

With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. 

Forgot the lifting Avinds ; and the long stems, 

Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, 

Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 

Ani lean d, in graceful attitudes, to rest. 

How strikingly the course of nature tells. 

By its light heed of Imman suffering, 

That it was fashion'd for a happier world ! 

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 
From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, 
With his faint people, for a little rest 



WILLIS'S r o p: M s. 45 

Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow 
To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
That he could see his people until now. 
They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank, 
And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among there. 
And bovv'd his head upon his hands to pray. 
Oh 1 when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts 
Come crowding thickly up for utterance, 
And the poor common words of courtesy 
Are such an empty mockery — how much 
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
He pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up 
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those 
Whose love had been his shield — and his deep tones 
Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 
For his estranged, misguided Absalom — 
The proud, bright being, who had burst away 
In all his princely beauty, to defy 
The heart that cherish'd him — for him he pour'd. 
In agony that would not be controU'd, 
Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 
********* 
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
Was straighten'd for the grave ; and, as the folds 
Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd 
The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 



46 W 1 LLI S'S P O E M S. 

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 

Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd 

To the admitted air, as glossy now 

As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 

The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. 

His helm was at his feet : his banner, soil'd 

With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid. 

Reversed, beside him : and the jewell'd hilt, 

Whose diamonds lit tlie passage of his blade. 

Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. 

The soldiers of the king trod to and fro. 

Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, 

The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 

And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly. 

As if he fear'd the slumberer might stir. 

A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade 

As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form 

Of David enter'd, and he gave command, 

In a low tone, to h'=5 few followers. 

And left him with his dead. The king stood still 

Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off 

The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 

The pall from the still features of his child. 

He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth 

In the resistless eloquence of wo : 

" Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die f 
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! 

That death should settle in thy glorious eye. 
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair I 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 47 

How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! 
My proud boy, Absalom ! 

♦' Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, 
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! 

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, 

And hear thy sweet ' my father /' fiom these dumb 
And cold lips, Absalom ! 

" But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young ; 

And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; — 

Bat thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 

" And oh I when I am stricken, and my heart, 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 

How will its love for thee, as I depart, 

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 

It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

" And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, 
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — 

And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup, 
If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. 

May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, liome. 
My lost boy, Absalom !" 



iJ^ WILLIS'S POEMS 

He cover'd up his face, and bowed himself 
A moment on his child : then, giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd 
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; 
And, as if strength were given him of God- 
He rose up calmly, and composed the pail 
Firmly and decently — and left him there — 
As if liis rest had been a breathing sleep. 



CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. 

He sat upon the " ass's foal" and rode 
On to Jerusalem. Beside him walk'd. 
Closely and silently, the faithful twelve. 
And on before him went a multitude 
Shouting Hosannas, and with eager hands 
Strewing their gar:nents thickly in his way. 
Th' unbroken foal beneath him gently stepp'd, 
Tame as its patient dam ; and as the song 
Of " welcome to the Son of David" burst 
Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves 
Of the waved branches touch'd its silken ears, 
It turn'd its wild eye for a moment back, 
And then, subdued by an invisible hand, 
Meekly trode onward with its slender feet. 

The dew's last sparkle from the grass had gone 
As he rode np Blount Olivet. The woods 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 49 

Through their cool shadows freshly to the west, 
And tlie light foal, with quick aud toiling step, 
And head bent low, kept its unslacken'd way 
Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind 
Sent o'er the mount from Jordan. As he reach'd 
The summit's breezy pitch, the Saviour raised 
His calm blue eye — there stood Jerusalem I 
Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath 
His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line 
Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs 
Betray'd the swelling fulness of his heart. 
There stood Jerusalem ! How fair she look'd — 
The silver sun on all her palaces, 
And her fair daughters 'mid the golden spires 
Tending their terrace flowers, and Kedron's stream 
Lacing the meadows with its silver band. 
And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky 
With the morn's exhalations. There she stood — 
Jerusalem — the city of his love, 
Chosen from all the earth ; Jerusalem — 
That knew him not — and had rejected him ; 
Jerusalem — for whom he came to die ! 
The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips 
At the fair sight ; the children leap'd and sang 
Louder Hosannas ; the clear air was fiU'd 
With odor from the trampled olive-leaves — 
But " Jesus wept." The loved disciple saw 
His Master's tears, and closer to his side 
He came with yearning looks, and on his neck 
The Saviour leant with heayenly tenderness, 
5 



50 WILLIS'S POIiMS. 

And mourn' d — "How oft, Jerusalem! would I 

Have gather'd you, as gathereth a hen 

Her brood beneath her wings — but ye would not!' 

He thought not of the death that he should die — 

He thought not of the thorns he knew nmst pierce 

His forehead — of the buffet on the cheek — 

The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn ! 

Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye 

Clear in the morning sun, and there, he knew. 

While they who " could not watch with him one hour" 

Were sleeping, he should sweat great drops of blood. 

Praying the " cup might pass." And Golgotha 

Stood bare and desert by the city wall. 

And in its midst, to his prophetic eye, 

Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies 

Were number'd all — the nails were in his feet — 

Th' insulting sponge was pressing on his lips — 

The blood and water gushing from his side — 

The dizzy faiutness swimming iu his brain — 

And, while his own disciples fled in fear, 

A world's death-agonies all mix'd in his ! 

Ay ! — he forgot all this. He only saw 

Jerusalem, — the chos'n — the loved — the lost ! 

He only felt that for her sake his life 

Was vainly giv'n, and, in his pitying love. 

The sufferings that would clothe the Heavens in black, 

Were quite forgotten. Was there ever love. 

In earth or heaven, equal unto this ? 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 51 



BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 

It was a green spot in the wilderness, 
Touch'd by the river Jordan. The dark pine 
Never had dropp'd its tassels on the moss 
Tufting the leaning bank, nor on the grass 
Of the broad circle stretching evenly 
To the straight larches, had a heavier foot 
Than the wild heron's trodden. Softly in 
Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool, 
Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet, 
And, hushing as they spread into the hght, 
Circled the edges of the pebbled bank 
Slowly, then rippled through the woods away. 
Hither had come th' Apostle of the wild, 
Winding the river's course. 'Twas near the flush 
Of eve, and, with a multitude around. 
Who from the cities had come out to hear. 
He stood breast-high amid the running stream, 
Baptizing as the Spirit gave him power. 
His simple raiment was of camel's hair, 
A leathern girdle close about his loins. 
His beard unshorn, and for his daily meat 
The locust and wild honey of the wood — 
But like the face of Moses on the mount 
Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye 
Burn'd the mild fire of love — and as he spoke 
The ear lean'd to him, and persuasion swift 
To the chain'd spirit of the listener stole. 



52 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

Silent upon the green and sloping bank 

The people sat, and while the leaves were shook 

With the birds dropping early to their nests, 

And the gray eve came on, within their heai'ts 

They mused if he were Christ. The rippling stream 

Still turn'd its silver courses from his breast 

As he divined their thought. " I but baptize,"' 

He said, " with water; but there cometh One, 

The latchet of whose shoes I may not dare 

E'en to unloose. He will baptize with fire 

And with the Holy Grhost." And lo ! while 3^et 

The words were on his lips, he raised his eyes, 

And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid 

His raiment off, and with his loins alone 

Girt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs, 

In their angelic slightness, nieek and bare, 

He waited to go in. But John forbade, 

And hurried to his feet and stay'd him there, 

And said, "Nay, master! I have need of thine, 

Not thou of mine f" And Jesus, with a smile 

Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks, 

And answer'd, " Suffer it to be so now; 

For thus it doth become me to fulfil 

All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream, 

He took around him the Apostle's arm, 

And drew him gently to the midst. The wood 

Was thick with the dim twilight as they came 

Up from the water. With his clasped hands 

Laid on his breast, th' Apostle silently 

FoUow'd his Master's steps — when, lo ! a light. 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 63 

Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun, 
Yet lambent as the softly burning stars, 
Envelop'd them, and from the heavens away 
Parted the dim blue ether like a veil ; 
And as a voice, fearful exceedingly, 
Broke from the midst, " This is my much loved Soy 
In whom I AM WELL PLEASED," a snow-white dove. 
Floating upon its wings, descended through ; 
And, shedding a swift music from its plumes, 
Circled, and flutter'd to the Saviour's breast. 



SCENE IN GETHSEMATVE. 

The moon was shming yet. The Orient's brow 
Set with the morning-star, was not yet dim ; 
And the deep silence which subdues the breath 
Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world 
As sleep upon the pulses of a child. 
'Twas the last watch of night. G-ethsemane, 
With its bathed leaves of silver, seem'd dissolved 
In visible stillness ; and as Jesus' voice, 
With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear 
Of his disciples, it vibrated on 
Like the first whisper in a silent world. 
They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'd 
The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses 
Of his deep love were pour'd, he felt the need 
5* 



54 WILLIS S POEMS. 

Of near communion, for his gift of strength 
Was wasted by the spirit's weariness 
He left them there, and went a Uttle on, * 
And in the depth of that hush'd silentness, 
Alone with God, he fell upon his face, 
And as his heart was broken with the rush 
Of his surpassing agony, and death. 
Wrung to him from a dying universe, 
Was mightier than the Son of man could bear. 
He gave his sorrows way — and in the deep 
Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer, 
''Father, if it be possible with thee. 
Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word, 
Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks, 
Stilleth the press of human agony ! 
. The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul ; 
And though his strength was weakness, and the light 
Which led him on till now was sorely dim. 
He breathed a new submission — " Not my will. 
But thine be done, oh Father 1" As he spoke, 
Voices were heard in heaven, and music stolo 
Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky 
As if the stars were swept like instr-uments. 
No cloud was visible, but radiant wings 
Were coming with a silvery rush to earth. 
And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one, 
With an illumined forehead, and the light 
Whose fountain is the mystery of God, 
Encalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to him 
And nerved him with a. ministry of strength. 



W 1 L L I S S POEMS. 55 

It was enough — and with his godUke brow- 
Re- written of his Father's messenger, 
With meekness, whose divinity is more 
Than power and glory, he return'd again 
To his disciples, and awaked their sleep. 
For " he that should betray him was at hand.' 



THE WIDOW OF N A I N . 

The Roman sentinel stood hehn'd and tall 
Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread 
Of comers to the city mart was done, 
For it was almost noon, and a dead heat 
Quiver'd upon the fine and sleeping dust, 
And the cold snake crept panting from the wall. 
And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun. 
Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept 
His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream 
Was broken by the solitary foot 
Of some poor mendicant, he raised his head 
To curse him fjr a tributary Jew, 
And slumberously dozed on. 

'Twas now high noon. 
The dull, low raurnmr of a funeral 
Went through the city — the sad sound of feet 
Unmix'd with voices — and the sentinel 



56 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly 

Up the wide streets along whose paved way 

The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, 

Bearing a body heavily on its bier, 

And by the crowd that in the burning sun, 

Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one 

Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate 

Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent 

His spsar-point downwards as the bearers pass'd, 

Baniing beneath their burden. There was one — 

Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, 

Cmmpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, 

FoUow'd an aged woman. Her short steps 

Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan 

Fell from her lips, thicken'd convulsively 

As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd 

FoUow'd apart, but no one spoke to her. 

She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone — 

A widow with one son. He was her all — 

The only tie she had in the wide world — 

And he was dead. They could not comfort her. 

Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate 
The funeral came forth. His hps were pale 
With the noon's sultry heat. The beadc d sweat 
Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn 
And simple latchets of his sandals lay. 
Thick, the white dust of travel. He had come 
Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not 
To wet his lips by green Bethsaida's pool, 

2 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 57 

Nor wash his feet in Kishon's silver springs, 
Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side 
To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze. 
Genesareth stood cool upon the East, 
Fast by the Sea of Galilee, and there 
The weary traveller might bide till eve , 
And on the alders of Bethulia's plains 
The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild , 
Yet turn'd he not aside, but, gazing on, 
From every swelling mount he saw afar, 
Amid the hills, the humble spires of Nain, 
The place of his next errand ; and the path 
Touch'd not Bethulia, and a lengue away 
Upon the East lay pleasant Galilee. 

Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd 

Follow'd the striken mourner. They came near 

The place of burial, and, with straining hands, 

Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall. 

And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's, 

And an inquiring wildness flashing through 

The thin gray lashes of her fever'd eyes. 

She came where Jesus stood beside the way. 

He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved. 

" Weep not!" h6 said ; and as they stay'd the bier, 

And at his bidding laid it at his feet. 

He gently drew the pall from out her grasp. 

And laid it back in silence from the dead. 

^^ ith troubled wonder the mute throng drew dear. 

And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space 



S8 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold hand, 
He said, "Arise!" And instantly the breast 
Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush 
Ean through the lines of the divided lips, 
And with a murmur of his mother's name, 
He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. 
And, while the mourner hung upon his neck, 
Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. 



HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 

The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds 
With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
Its garments of a thousand dyes ; and leaves. 
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, 
And every thing that bendeth to the dew. 
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 

All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light, 
And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad 
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth 
Was pouring odors from its spicy pores. 
And the young birds were singing as if life 
Were a new thing to them; but music came 
Upon her ear like discord, and she felt 



■*-^.^'^-' .>- 










Willis's poems. 59 

That pang of the unreasonable heart, 
That, bleeditig amid things it loved so well, 
Would have some sign of sadness as they pass. 
She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were press'd 
Till the blood started ; and the wandering veins 
Of her transparent forehead were swell'd out, 
As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye 
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, 
Which made its language legible, shot back, 
From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 
Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand 
Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet. 
Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor, 
Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up 
Into his mother's face until he caught 
The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling 
Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form 
Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath, 
As if liis light proportions would have swell'd, 
Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man. 

Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now 
Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard 
Is law upon his breast, and his high brow 
So written with the converse of his God, 
Beareth the swollen vein of agony. 
H'.s lip is quivering, and his wonted step 
Of vigor is not there , and though the morn 
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 



60 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

He gave to her the water and the bread, 
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself 
To look upon her face, but laid his hand 
In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy, 
And left her to her lot of loneliness. 

Should Hagar weep ? May slighted woman turn, 
And, as a vine the oak has shaken off, 
Bend lightly to her leaning trust again ? 
O no ! by all her loveliness — by all 
That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! 
Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek 
By needless jealousies ; let the last star 
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
Wrong her by petulanoa, suspicion, all 
That makes her cup a bitterness — ^yet give 
One evidence of love, and earth has not 
An emblem of devotedness like hers. 
But oh ! estrange her once — it boots not how — 
By wrong or silence — any thing that tells 
A change has come upon your tenderness, — 
And there is not a feeling out of heaven 
Her pride o'ermastereth not. 

She went her way with a strong step and slow — 
Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimmM, 
As if it were a diamond, and her form 
Borne proudly up^ as if her heart breathed througli. 
Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd 
His hand till it was pain'd ; for he had read. 



M I I. L 1 S ' S POEMS. « I 

The dark look of his mother, and the seed 
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 

The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up 
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. 
The cattle of the hills were in the shade, 
And the bright plumage of the Orient lay 
On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 
It was an hour of rest ! but Hagar found 
No shelter in the wilderness, and on 
She kept her weary way, until the boy 
Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips 
For water ; but she could not give it him. 
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — 
For it was better than the close, hot brealh 
Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; 
But he Avas sore athirst, and his blue eyes 
"Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know 
Why God denied him water in the wild. 
She sat a little longer, and he grew 
Ghastly and faint, as if he Avould have died. 
It was too much for her. She lifted him. 
And bore him further on, and laid his head 
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; 
And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourn d. 

" God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! 
I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 
Upon thy brow to look, 
6 



02 ^VILLIS'S POEMS. 

And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 
And could I see thee die ? 

" I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, 
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; 

Or wiling the soft hours, 
By the rich gush of water-sources playing, 
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 

So beautiful and deep. 

"Oh no ! and when I watch'd by thee the while, 
And saw thy bright lip curlmg in thy dream, 

And thought of the dark stream 
In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, 
How pray'd I that my father's land might be 

An heritage for thee ! 

" And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee ' 
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; 

And oh ! my last caress 
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. 
How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there 

Upon his clustering hair I" 

She stood beside the well her Grod had given 
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
The forehead of her child until he laugh'd 
In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd 
His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
Of the cool plashing of Ms mother's hand. 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 65 

RIZPAH WITH HER SONS, 
(the day before they weue hanged on gibeah.) 

" Bread for my mother!" said the voice of one 
Darkening the door of Rizpah. She look'd up— • 
And lo! the princely countenance and mien 
Of dark-brovv'd Armoni. The eye of Saul — 
The very voice and presence of the king — 
Limb, port, and majesty, — were present there, 
Mock'd like an apparition in her son. 
Yet, as he stoop'd his forehead to her hand 
With a kind smile, a something of his mother 
Unbent the haughty arching of his lip, 
And, through the darkness of the widow's hear*. 
Trembled a nerve of tenderness that shook 
Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears. 

" Whence comest thou ?" said Rizpah. 

" From the house 
Of David. In his gate there stood a soldier — 
This in his hand. I pluck'd it, and I said, 
'J. king's son takes it for hU hungry mother T 
God stay the famine 1" 

****** As he spoke, a step, 
Light as an antelope's, the threshold press'd, 
And like a beam of light into the room 
Enter'd Mephibosheth. What bird of heaven 
Or creature of the wild — what flower of earth — 



Si Willis's p o ii; m s . 

Was like this fairest of the sons of Saul I 
The violet's cup was harsh to his blue eye. 
Less agile was the fierce barb's fiery step. 
His voice drew hearts to him. His smile was like 
The incarnation of some blessed dream — 
Its joyousness so sunn'd the gazer's eye I 
Eair were his locks. His snowy teeth divided 
A bow of Love, drawn with a scarlet thread. 
His cheek was like the moist heart of the rose ; 
And, but for nostrils of that breathing fire 
That turns the lion back, and limbs as Mthe 
As is the velvet muscle of the pard, 
Mephibosheth had been too fair for man. 

As if he were a vision that would fade, 
Rizpah gazed on him. Never, to her eye, 
Grew his bright form familiar ; but, like stars, 
That seem'd each night new lit in a new heaven, 
He was each morn's sweet gift to her. She loved 
Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child, 
Tenderly, fondly. Bat for him — the last — 
What had she done for heaven to be his njother! 
Her heart rose in her throat to hear his voice ; 
She look'd at him forever through her tears ; 
Her utterance, when she spoke to him, sank down. 
As if the lightest thought of him had lain 
In an unfathom'd cavern of her soul. 
The morning light was part of him, to her — 
What broke the day for, but to show his beauty ? 
The hours but measured time till he should come • 



W ILLI S'S P OEMS, 65 

Too tardy sang the bird when he was gone ; 

She would have shut the flowers — and call'd the stat 

Back to the mountain-top — and bade the sun 

Pause at eve's golden door — to wait for him 1 

Was this a heart gone wild ? — or is the love 

Of mothers like a madness ? Such as this 

Is many a poor one in her humble home, 

Who silently and sweetly sits alone, 

Pouring her life all out upon her child. 

What cares she that he does not feel how close 

Her heart beats after his — that all unseen 

Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day, 

And watch his sleep like angels ? And, when moved 

By some sore needed Providence, he stops 

In his wild path and lifts a thought to heaven, 

What cares the mother that he does not see 

The hnk between the blessing and her prayer ! 

He who once wept with Mary — angels keeping 
Their unthank'd watch — are a foreshadowing 
Of what love is in hea,ven. We may believe 
That we shall know each other's forms hereafter, 
And, in the bright fields of the better land, 
Call the lost dead to us. Oh conscious heart I 
That in the lone paths of this shadowy world 
Hast bless'd all light, however dimly shining. 
That broke upon the darkness of thy way — 
Number thy lamps of love, and tell me, now. 
How many canst thou re-light at the stars 
And blush not at their burning? One — one only — 
6* 



66 AVILLIS'S POEMS. 

Lit whiie your pulses by one heart kept time, 
And fed with faithful fondness to your grave — 
(Tho' sometimes with a hand stretch'd back from heaven) 
Steadfast thro' all things — near, when most forgot- - 
And with its finger of unerring truth 
Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour — 
One lamp — thy mother s love — amid the stars 
Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and, before 
The throne of God, burn through eternity — 
Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here. 

The hand in salutation gently raised 
To the bow'd forehead of the princely boy, 
Linger'd amid his locks. " I sold," he said, 
" My Lybian barb for but a cake of meal — 
Lo! this — my mother! As I pass'd the street, 
I hid it in my mantle, for there stand 
Famishing mothers, with their starving babes. 
At every threshold ; and wild, desperate men 
Prowl, with the eyes of tigers, up and down, 
Watching to rob those who, from house to house, 
Beg for the dying. Fear not thou, my mother ! 
Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee !" 

[irNFINISIIED.] 



LAZARUS AND MARY. 

Jesus was there but yesterday. The prmts 
Of his departing feet were nt the doo;-; 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 67- 

His " Peace be with you !'" was yet audible 
In the rapt porch of Mary's charmed eai- ; 
And, in the low rooms, 'twas as if the air, 
Hush'd with his going forth, had been the breatl: 
Of angels left on watch — so conscious still 
The place seem'd of his presence ! Yet, withiu, 
The family by Jesus loved were weeping, 
For Lazarus lay dead. 

And Mary sat 
By the pale sleeper. He was young to die. 
The countenance whereon the Saviour <lwelt 
With his benignant smile — the soft fair lines 
Breathing of hope — were still all eloquent, 
Like life well mock'd in marble. That the voico, 
Gone from those pallid lips, was heard m heaven, 
Toned with unearthly sweetness — that the light, 
Quench'd in the closing of those stirless lids. 
Was veiling before Grod its timid fire, 
New-lit, and brightening like a star at eve — 
That Lazarus, her brother, was in bliss. 
Not with this cold clay sleeping — Mary knew. 
Her heaviness of heart was not for him ! 
But close had been the tie by Death divided. 
The intertwining locks of that bright hair 
That wiped the feet of Jesus — the fair hands 
Clasp'd in her breathless wonder while he taught— 
Scarce to one pulse thrill'd more in unison. 
Than with one soul this sister and her brother 
Had look'd their lives together. In this lov(\ 



68 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

Hallow'd from stain, the woman's heart of Mary 
Was, with its rich affections, all bound up. 
Of an unblemish'd beauty, as became 
An office by archangels fiU'd till now, 
She walk'd with a celestial halo clad ; 
And while, to the Apostles' eyes, it seem'd 
She but fulfiU'd her errand out of heaven — 
Sharing her low roof with the Son of G od — 
She was a woman, fond and mortal still ; 
And the deep fervor, lost to passion's fire. 
Breathed through the sister's tenderness. In vain 
Knew Mary, gazing on that face of clay. 
That it was not her brother. He was there- 
Swathed in that linen vesture for the grave — 
The same loved one in all his comeliness — 
And with him to the grave her heart must go. 
What though he talk'd of her to angels ? nay — 
Hover'd in spirit near her? — 'twas that arm, 
Palsied in death, whose fond caress she knew ! 
It was that lip of marble with whose kiss. 
Morning and eve, love hemm'd the sweet day in. 
This was the form by the Judean maids 
Praised for its palm-like stature, as he walk'd 
With her by Kedron in the eventide — 
The dead was Lazarus f * * * * * 
The burial was over, and the night 
Fell upon Bethany — and morn — and noon. 
And comforters and mourners went their Wciy — 
But death stay'd on ! They had been oft alone, , 
When Lazarus had foUow'd Christ to hear 



V O K M S 



69 



His teachings in Jerusalem ; but this 
Was more than sohtude. The silence now 
Was void of expectation. Something felt 
Always before, and loved without a name,— 
Joy from the air, hope from the opening door, 
Welcome and life from olF the very walls,— 
Seem'd gone— and in the chamber where he lay 
There was a fearful and unbreathing hush, 
Stiller than night's last hour. So fell on Mary 
The shadows all have known, whose bleeding heai-ts 
Seem'd the torn gate thro' which the loved, departed 
Broke from this world away. The parting soul 
Spreads wing betwixt the mourner and the sky ! 
As if its path lay, from the tie last broken, 
Straight through the cheering gateway of the sun- 
And,°to the eye strain'd after, 'tis a cloud 
That bars the light from all things. 

Now as Christ 

Drew near to Bethany, the Jews went forth 
With Martha, mourning Lazarus. But Mary 
Sat in the house. She knew the hour was nigh 
When He would go again, as He had said, 
Unto His Father ; and she had felt that He, 
Who loved her brother Lazarus in life. 
Had chose the hour to bring him home thro' Death 
In no unkind forgetfulness. Alone- 
She could lift up the bitter prayer to heaven, 
" Thy will be done, God !"-but that dear brother 
Had fill'd the cup and broke the bread for Christ; 
And ever, at the morn, when she had knelt 



A^'1LL^S'S POEMS. 

And wash'd those holy feet, came Lazarus 

To bind his sandals on, and follow forth 

With dropp'd eyes, like an angel, sad and fair- — 

Intent upon the Master's need alone. 

Indissolubly link'd were they ! And now, 

To go to meet him — Lazaru3 not there — 

And to his greeting answer " It is well!" 

And, without tears, (since grief would weigh on Hirr 

Whose soul was over-sorrowful,) to kneel 

And minister alone — her heart gave way ' 

She cover'd up her face and turn'd again 

To wait within for Jesus. But once more 

Came Martha, saying, " Lo ! the Lord is here 

And calleth for thee, Mary !" Then arose 

The mourner from the ground, whereon she sate 

Shrouded in sackcloth, and bound quickly up 

The golden locks of her dishevell'd hair, 

And o'er her ashy garments drew a veil 

Hiding the eyes she could not trust. And still. 

As she made ready to go forth, a calm 

As in a dream fell on her. 

At a fount 
Hard by the sepulchre, without the wall, 
Jesus awaited Mary. Seated near 
Were the way-worn disciples in the shade ; 
But, of himself forgetful, Jesus lean'd 
Upon his staff, and watch'd where she should come 
To whose one sorrow — but a sparrow's falling — 
The pity that redeem'd a world could bleed ! 



WILLIS'S ¥ O EMS. /a 

And as she came, with that uncertain step, — 

Eager, yet weak,— her hands upon her breast,— 

And they who follow' d her all fallen back 

To leave her with her sacred grief alone,— 

The heart of Christ was troubled. She drew near, 

And the disciples rose up from the fount, 

Moved by her look of wo, and gather'd round; 

And Mary— for a moment — ere she look'd 

Upon the Saviour, stay'd her faltering feet,— 

And straighten'd her veil'd form, and tighter drew 

Her clasp upon the folds across her breast ; 

Then, with a vain strife to control her tears. 

She staggered to their midst, and at His feet 

Fell prostrate, saying, " Lord ! hadst thou been here, 

My brother had not died !" The Saviour groan'd 

In spirit, and stoop'd tenderly, and raised 

The mourner from the ground, and in a voice. 

Broke in its utterance like her own. He said, 

" Where have ye laid him ?" Then the Jews who came, 

Following Mary, answer' d through their tears, 

" Lord ! come and see !" But lo ! the mighty hoa: t 

That in Grethsemane sweat drops of blood. 

Taking for us the cup that might not pass — 

The heart whose breaking cord upon the cross 

Made the earth tremble, and the sun afraid 

To look upon his agony — the heart 

Of a lost world's Redeemer^overflow'd, 

Touch' d by a mourner's sorrow ! Jesus wept. 

Calm'd by those pitying tears, and fondly broodmg 



72 W I L L I S ' S P O E M S . 

Upon the thought that Christ so loved her brother. 

Stood Mary there ; but that lost burden now 

Lay on His heart who pitied her ; and Christ, 

Following slow, and groaning in Himself, 

Came to the sepulchre. It was a cave, 

And a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, 

" Take ye away the stone !" Then lifted He 

His moistened eyes to Heaven, and while the Jews 

And the disciples bent their heads in awe. 

And trembling Mary sank upon her knees, 

The Son of God pray'd audibly. He ceased, 

And for a minute's space there was a hush, 

As if th' angelic watchers of the world 

Had stay'd the pulses of all breathing things, 

To listen to that prayer. The face of Christ 

Shone as He stood, and over Him there came 

Command, as 'twere the living face of God, 

And with a loud voice, He cried, " Lazarus ! 

Come forth !" And instantly, bound hand and foot, 

And borne by unseen angels from the cave, 

He that was dead stood with them. At the word 

Of Jesus, the fear-stricken Jews unloosed 

The bands from off the foldings of his shroud ; 

And Maty, with her dark veil thrown aside, 

Ran to him swiftly, and cried, " Lazarus ! 

My brother, Lazarus !" and tore away 

The napkin she had bound about his head — 

And touch'd the warm lips with her fearful hand — 

And on his neck fell weeping. And while all 

Lay on their faces prostrate, Lazarus 



W I L r. I 8 ■ S P O EMS. 

Took Mary by the hand, and they knelt down 
And worshipp'd Hiin who loved them. 



CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN. 

" Then were there brought unto him little children, that he shouln 
put his hands on them, and pray: and the disciples rebuked them. 

•' But Jesus said, Sutfer little children, and forbid them not, to come 
unto me; for of such is the kingdom of heaven."— Matthew .\i\. 
13, 14. 

" At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the 
greatest in the kingdom of heaven? 

" And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the mi<l.-t 
of them, 

"And said, Verily, I say unto you. Except ye be converted and bo- 
come as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of 
heaven. 

" Whosoever, therefore, shall humble himself as this little child, th« 
same is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."— Mattukw xviii. 1-4. 



The errand upon earth was well nigh done. 
A little more, and that dread passer-on — 
Time, that not even at the Cross stood still — 
Must come, with Calvary's ninth hour. And Chri<:t 
Turn'd tow'rd Jerusalem. Galilee was sweet, 
With its fair Mount, that was the step of heaven — 
(Whereon He had but just now stood, and through 
The door flung open to the throne of G©d, 
Drank strength in the transfiguring light) — and Here 
Dwelt Mary, holy mother; an I 'twas here 
7 



AVILLIS'S POEMS. 

His childhood had been passed ; and here the life 

E'en Christ must learn to love, to be " like us/' 

Had been most sweet to him. But not where lifa 

So gently beautiful is known — oh, not 

Where Nature with her calm rebuke is heard — 

Co'jld the Great Wrong be done! m Mammon's mar: — 

The crowded city, where the small, still voice 

Is, like the leaf's low whisper, overborne — 

Where the dark shadow, which before us falls 

Whtjn we are turning from the light awa}^, 

Seems at another's feet and not our own — 

Where, 'mid the multitude's bewildering shout, 

Anguish may moan unheedly and even 

Lama sahacthani go up unheard — 

There, only, could the Son of God be slain ! 

And when to his disciples Jesus said 

" Behold, we go up to Jerusalem," 

Then turned His path from peaceful Galilee ; 

Thence — to the scourge, the buffet, and the scorn, 

Gethsemane's last conflict, and the Cross — 

The meek first step to Calvary was there ! 

And Christ passed over Jordan, to the coast 

Of populous Judea ; and there came 

Multitudes to Him, listening as He taught, 

And wondering at His miracles ; for lo ! 

His calm word healed all sicknesses ; the blind 

Rose up and gazed upon the luminous brow 

Whose glory had shone through their darkened lids ; 

The dumb spoke ; and the leper became clean ; 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 75 

And devils were cast out which had defied 

The word of His disciples. With new awe, 

Touched with compassionating love, looked these 

Upon their Master now ; for, near at hand. 

They felt the shadow of His coming hour. 

And though His face shone, with the strength new given 

By the celestial sacrament of light 

Upon the Mount administered, they still 

Trembled, as men, for One who, as a man, 

Must pass through death —death of such agony 

As for a world's transgressions might atone — 

Whose bitter cup even the Son of Gro;l 

Must shrink from, with a prayer that it might pass! 

Christ had told o'er His sorrows, to the end. 
They knew what must befall. In silence sad. 
Listened the Twelve, while jeered the Pharisee, 
And tempted Him the Scribe — for so must He 
To His last victory come ; but eager still. 
Looked they where they might minister to Him, 
Or, watchfully, from that dark path of woe. 
Pluck out the needless thorn. 

The eventide 
Found Him among his questioners — the same ; 
Patient and meek as iu the morning hour — 
And while the Scribes, with His mild answers foiled, 
Sat by and reasoned in their hearts, behold 
There was a stir in the close multitude, 
And voices pleaded to come nigh ; and, straight, 



\\' I L L I S ' S POEMS. 

The crowd divided, and a mother came, 

Holding her babe before her, and on Christ 

Fixing her moist eyes steadfastly. He turned, 

Benignant, as slie trembhngly came near ; 

And the sad earnestness His face had worn 

While He disputed with the crafty scribes, 

Was touched with the foreshadowing of a smile. 

And, lo ! another, and another still, 

Led by this SAveet encouragement to come, 

Pressed where the first had made her trusting way ; 

And soon, a fair young company they stood — 

A band, who (by a lamp of love, new lit, 

And fed by oil of tenderness from Heaven — 

By recognition, instinct as the eye 

To know, 'mid clouds, the twinkle of a star — 

By mother's love) knew wdiat must holiest be, 

And where to bring their children to be blest. 

And as Christ looked uj^on them, where they stood, 

And each would lay her infant in His arms, 

To see it there, and know that He had borne 

Her burden on His bosom, there rose up 

Some of the Twelve; and, mindful of the night, 

And of the trials of the weary day, 

They came between, and bade them to depart, 

And trouble not the Master, Then did Christ, 

Reproving His disciples, call again 

The mothers they had turned from Him away , 

And, leaning gently tow'rd them as they came, 

Tenderly took the babes unto His arms, 

And laid His hand upon their foreheads fair, 



\V I L L 1 S'S P O E M S 77 

And blest them, saying : Suffer them to come ; 
For, in my Father's kingdom, such are they. 
Whoso is humble as a little child, 
The same is greatest in the courts of heaven. 
Spotless is infancy, we fondly feel. 
Angels in heaven are like it, He hath said- 
Mothers have dreamed the smile upon the lips 
or slumbering babes to be the memory 
Of a bright world they come from , and that, here, 
'Mid the temptations of this flxllen star, 
They bide the trial for a loftier sphere — 
Ever progressing. Fearfully, if so, 
Give we, to childhood, guidance for high heaven I 
But, be this lofty vision as it may, 
Christ hied them, liere. And, ohj if in the hour 
Of his li:st steps to Calvary, and 'mid 
The tempters, who. He knew, had thus begun 
The wrongs that were to lead Him to the cross ; 
If here, ''mid weariness and gathering woe, 
The heart of Christ turned meltingly to them, 
An 1, for a harsh word to these little one?^ 
Though uttered but witli sheltering caic for Him. 
He spoke rebukingly to those He loved — 
If babes thus pure and priceless were to Christ — 
Holy, indeed, the trust to M'hom they're given 1 
Sacred are they! 



^v 1 L n s ' s r o k ]sr s . 



CHRIST'S MOTHER. 

THOUGHTS trPON THR PROBAllLK DAILY KECIPKOCITIKS OF DUTY AND 
TENDEUNESS BETWEEN CHRIST AND HIS MOTUEi;, IN THE SAVIOUK'S 
OlIILDIIOOD — SlT(;(iESTKD UY THE READING OF THAT EXQITISITE NARRA- 
TIVE, THE SECOND CHAPTER OF LUKE. 

The boy was sad, yet fair. 
The marvels of his birth were strange to heai-, 
And, to regard his gentle face and speak 
8ome fond word of him to his youthful mother 
Seemed kindness to the humble Nazarenes 
Who stopp'd at Mary's door; but thoughtfully, 
S'le listen'd to their praises of the child — 
iSo less than all she knew — and let her heart 
Look with its answer up to God. And day 
Followed on day, like any childhood's pr.ssing ; 
And silently sat Maiy at her wheel, 
And watched the boy Messiah as she spun; 
And — as a human child, unto his mother 
•' Subject" the while — he did her low-voiced bidding, 
Or gently came to lean upon her knee 
And asked her of the thoughts that m him stirred 
Dimly as yet, or with affection sweety 
Tell murmuring of his weariness; and there, 
All tearful-hearted, as a human mother 
Unutterably fond, while touch'd with awe — 
She paused, or with a tremulous hand spun on, 
77ie blessing that her lips instinctive gave, 
Ashed of Him with an instant thought again. 



"WILLIS'S 1» O K 2^1 S . 79 

And when they " went, up to Jerusalem, 

After the custom of the feast," and there 

" Fulfilled the days," and back to Nazareth 

Went a day's journey, and sought Jesus there, 

Among" their Idnsfolk who had gone before, 

And found him not — the mother's heart of Mary 

Well knew, that wheresoever strayed the child. 

He could not go by angels unattended ; 

But, therefore^ loas her tenderness untroubled ^ No. 

Though in her memory lay Gabriel's words, 

Brought her on wings at God's own throne unfolded; 

Though in rapt speech, Anna the prophetess 

Had named him the Redeenier, newly born — 

And Simeon, forbidden to see death 

Till he had seen the Christ, had taken Him 

Into his arms, and prayed that he might now 

Depart in peace — though of the song they sang, 

(That host, who, while the glory of the Lord 

Shone round about, told of his birth by night 

Unto the shepherds as they watched,) she knew 

The burden was a work yet unfulfdled — 

To Him the Saviour given, and yet, to do.- 

Still was the child she loved gone from her now. 

And Mary " sought him sorrowing." 

And who 
" Kept all his payings in her heait " but Mary ? 
It was not with unnatural brightness beaming 
From the fair forehead of the boy, nor yet 
By revelations from his infant lips 



80 AVILLIS'S POEMS. 

Too wondrous to deny, that Jesus first 
Gave out the dawn of the Messiah morn 
Breaking within his ?oul. With wisdom only 
Reached by the child's simplicity — so oft 
Truer than sages lore — and outward pressed 
By the divinity half conscious now, 
He argueii in the Temple, and amazed 
The elders, seated in their midst — but none 
In these first teachings saw the Son of God, 
And he went back to Nazareth — a child — 
Unsought by the disputing priests again, 
And his strange words forgotten hut by Mary^ 

Who " KEPT THEM IN HER HEART." 

Oh, not alone 
In his pure teachings and in Calvary's woe, 
Lay the blest errand of the Saviour here, 
His walk through life's dark pathway blessed yet more. 
Distant from God so infinitely far 
Was human weakness, till He came to bear, 
With us, our weaknesses awhile, that fear 
Had heard Jehovah's voice, in thunder only. 
And worshipped trembling. Heaven is nearer now. 
At God's right hand sits One who was a child, 
Lorn as the humblest, and who here abode 
Till of our sorrows he had suffered all. 
They who now weep, remember that he wept. 
The tempted, the despised, the sorrowing, feel 
That Jesus, too, drank of these cups of woe. 
And oh, if of our joys he tasted less — 



AV I L L 1 S'S P O K IVI S. 81 

If all but one passed from his lips away — 
That one — a mother's love — by his partaking 
Is like a thread of heaven spun through our life^ 
And we, in the untii-ing watch, the tears, 
The tenderness and fond trust of a mother, 
May feel a heavenly closeness unto God — 
For such, all human in its blest excess, 
Was Mary's love for Jesus. 



HANNAH AND SAMUEL; 

OR, 

CONSECRATION OF A CHILD TO GOD. 

(Book of Samuel.*) 

Day dawned, and Hannah look'd upon her boy. 
She had arisen while the morning star 
Shone through the parted curtain of the tent, 
And wak'd the fair young sleeper; and, once more 
— That fondest of a mother's tasks to be 
Her blessed happiness but this once more — 
Had wash'd the slight limbs of her perfect child, 
And, combing the soft, ringlets that her vow 
Would keep unshorn till death, had strained him cloi?e 
In his unblemish'd beauty to her breast; 
And now she girded the new vestments on, 
Which, to his frolic infancy, were strange ; 
Smoothing the knots of the uneven threads, 

* The description of the Tiibeinaclt* at Shiloli, nnd the pftvticiilnrs 
of the consecration of Saimiei, are as collateil from the sacred writers. 



82 WILLIS'S POEars. 

And half caressing him as to his form 

Of symmetry she shap'd each spotless fold ; 

Smiling her sweet assurances the while, 

In answer to his lisp of wondeiing words ; 

Until, as rose the sun, her fair boy stood 

Biave in his new apparel at her knee — 

Only the little feet as yet left bare 

That press'd their rosy dimples to the ground. 

This, and no more, of mother's tasks to do ! 

But, as she stoop'd to bind the sandals on — 

Her face a moment hidden from her child, 

And the o'erburdened eyelids giving way 

With the lost balance of the cup too full — 

The tears rain'd on her hands! Of three sweet years' 

Lone tending of the offspring ask'd of God — 

Offspring, as if her heart's pulse, brought to light. 

Had proved to be an angel, hidden there 

To take her bitterest reproach away — 

This was the last fond office ! 

Brightly shone 
The sun upon the Tabernacle now ; 
And, from the holy altar in the midst 
Rose the white smoke into the cloudless air. 
While the wayf irers with their bullocks slain, 
Gather'd from tents without. They had come up 
From Ramah, a day's journey, to the courts 
Of Shiloh — Elkanah and all his house — 
To pay unto the Lord their yearly vows. 
The incense, the burnt-offerings, oil and wine ; 



A\' I L L I S ' S POEMS. 83 

And Hannah, who, in answer to the pt-ayer 
Here utter'd, when her barrenness she mourn'd, 
Had borne unto her husband " a man child " — 
Thus numbered among women well belov'd — 
And who had tarried till the infant boy, 
Weau'd fiom her breast and nurtured by her care, 
Could from his mother's hands be let to go, 
Had come, in the fulfillment of her vow, 
To consecrate her first-born unto God. 
It was the hour of prayer. Antl Eli came 
Forth where the Tabernacle's vail, of blue, 
Puiple and scarlet, hung beneath the sky, 
With hooks of silver on its brazen posts, 
Girding the altar in. The cleansing priests 
Laid the slain bullocks on the burning coals; 
The wine and oil were brought; and ?pices rare 
Were swung in golden censers, to and fro. 
While blood was sprinkled on the hallow'd ground. 
And tow'rd the ark — (holding the Aaron's rod, 
The golden pot of manna, and the Book 
Of Moses' law — that Ark of many vails; 
Its ten of fine-twin'd linen loop'd with gold. 
Its ten of goats'-hair with the loops of brass, 
lis guarding leather of the hide of beasts, 
Its rams'- skins scarlet-dyed, and, round them all, 
The many-colored vail of outer woik) — 
Toward this Ai-k, made fearful by the cloud 
That; floated high betwixt the cherubim, 
Whose wings, miraculously still, reveal'd 



84 WILLIS'S P O K xM S . 

The place where dwelc the presence of the Lord- 
Turii'd Eli with his prayer. 

The blessing sought, 
Uprose the High Priest in his sacred robe ; 
And took the boy, who, by his mother's hand, 
Was led before the altar ; and, with oil 
From out the brazen laver and with blood 
From the bm-nt-oflPering, he anointed there 
The tiny fingers of the chosen child — 
The fingers that should trim the sacred lamps, 
And lay the show-bread on the golden stands, 
And in the temple minister with oil — 
Thus hallowing for God those infant hands ! 
But lo! as o'er his beautiful young head 
The " linen ephod " sacredly was thrown — 
The garment in whose spotless folds there lay 
The symbol of his service for the Lord — 
The Holy Spirit cnter'd to the child ! 
As Eli's blessing died upon the lip, 
Lo ! with the uphfted hands, the child at prayer 1 
'Twas to be told, that such are heard in Heaven. 
'Twas to be written in the Holy Book, 
And read by mothers till the world should end, 
That, on the day when consecrated first, 
An Infant " worshipp'd God 1" 

And Hannah look'd 
On her lov'd child, as, in his prayer, he knelt. 
Accepted of the Lord. The morrow's sun 




<f '-^ 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 85 

Would see her on her journey to the home 

Which his bright playfulness would light no more— 

The silken curls, so dear to her awaking, 

Miss'd from the pressure of her cheek at morn — 

His tiny foolfVill listen'd for in vain — 

His voice, his laugh, his murmur, silent all. 

And for her lord— who lov'd her, before ev'n 

Her womanhood's reproach had passed away. 

But who, in happier days, she knew so well, 

Lov'd more to see the mother of his boy— 

Her lonely chamber would be silent now! 

Childless in Ramah she would once more be. 

But, mourn'd the mother ? 

Of the joy of one 
Whose Eon can thus be " lent unto the Lord—" 
Joy in His strength, who thus, in Samuel, 
Proclaim'd, by miracle, the child His care— 
Of joy for mothers, while the world should last — 
Sang Hannah, then, the Heaven-inspir'd first song — 
And Revelation took those mother's words ; 
And by their hymning, now divinely writ, 
In Holy Sciipture, as with pen of fire— 
An anthem for eternity — we know 
That joy is for the child that's "lent to God I" 



86 WILLIS'S POEMS. 



A BIBLE-STORY FOR MOTHERS. 

'TwAS sunset in the land where E len was — 
Haran, the fertile in the times of old. 
And now the flocks, from far-off field and hill, 
Home followed to the fold at Laban's well; 
And, when for them the stone was rolled away, 
They drank, and Jacob numbered them. For such 
As of its Ufe had well fulfilled a day, 
The sunset seemed the giving of it joy — 
Joy for the horned cattle with their calves, 
Joy for the goats with kids, the sheep with lambs; 
Joy for the bii'ds, that tilted on their nests, 
Singing till twilight should enfold their young ; 
And, from the lowly hut beyond the well, 
Hose the sweet laughter of the shepherd's babe ; 
And Zilpah's son, and BiUah's, on the clean 
Smooth floor between the household's circling tents 
Play'd with the children of the unloved Leah. 

But, in the shadow of the tallest palm, 

There stood a tent, apart. Th' untrampled grass 

Told of no frolic feet frimiliar there ; 

And silence reigned within its guai'ded room ; 

And, by the half-drawn curtain of the door. 

Sat one who felt her life too sorrowful 

To let the greeting of the sunset in. 

For, on the herds that watered at the well, 

And on the children that played joyous by. 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 87 

And on the flowers, and birds, and laden trees- 
Each lacking naught of hfe that was its own — 
How could she look and feel she was of them — 
Rachel — the childless? * * * 

* * * * 'Twas another eve ; 

And other summers had on Haran smiled — 

An eve of golden glory, that, again, 

Found Jacob with his flocks at Laban's well. 

And now — uncovered, as at prayer — he stood, 

And look'd where glowed the Lcthcl of his dream ; 

Foi", ill the glory of that western sk}'-, 

He saw again the ladder rise to Hea,ven, 

And the ascending and descending troop 

That ministered to him Avho stood above — 

The place none other than the house of God — 

There, where he pouied the oil upon the stone, 

As he came East from Canaan. And, as wont, 

In the devoutness of that evening hour, 

He recognized the covenant fulfilled : 

For he had food, and raiment to put on — 

His cattle and his flocks in peace were there — 

A Gi»d still with him, wdio increased his store, 

And kept him in the way that he should go. 

An J who the holy promise would fulfill. 

Dearest to Jacob in that stranger land, 

To bring him lo his father's house once more. 

Thus prayed he, with the setting of the sun. 

But, oh ! there was another gift from God, 

And far more precious, though unnamed with these ; 



88 w I L L I s's r o K M s. 

Whose joy had waited not the sunset's glow 
To kindle it to prayer, but whose fond fire 
Burned a thanksgiving incense all the day— 
She ivhom he loved had home to him a child. 

And, to the tent that stood beneath the palrn — 
The tent apart, that was so shut and lone — 
The glory of the evening entered now ; 
The silken cord drawn eagerly and far, 
That the sun's greeting should be all let in — 
The rosy record of a day fulfilled 
Being the mirror of a mother's joy — 
For, on the floor, rcjoicmg in its light. 
Lay the boy babe of Rachel. She, of all 
The daughters of the land most fair to see — 
Most loved, and so most needing to bestow 
A jewel from her heart on him slie loved — 
She who of women was reproached to be 
Barren though beautiful — and thus unblest, 
Refusing to bo comforted — behold ! 
God had remembered her ! 

mother loved — 
You who have taken to your breast the child 
New-given from your beauty unto him 
Whose soul is mingled in its life, the link 
Of an immortal spirit welded now 
Betwixt you twain forever, read you here 
How in the Scripture is your story writ! 
. The sands of gold, from nature's running brook. 



AV I L I. I S ' S P O E M S . 89 

Were singled truly in the olden time. 

That which was holiest in our daily life, 

Whs, in inspired words, all wondrou^ly 

First written — as the stars are set to burn — 

Small thou<;h they seem, of an undying brightness, 

Jacob's for Rachel was a human love — 

A heart won by the beauty of a maid 

Met, with her flocks, beside her fiitlier's well. 

How beautiful was Laban's daughter there, 

'Tis written ; and, how tenderly he loved. 

Is of his lifetime made the golden thread; 

And, of her sorrow that she bare no child, 

And of the taking that reproach away, 

'Tis lessoned for the world to learn by heart- - 

Sweet as a song — " God hearki:ned unto her." 

And oh, the bliss of Rachel in her chiUl — 

Its hallowed fountain was twice Scnp(u:e-told 1 

Look rhon, oh mother, how again 'twas writ — 

'The story of thy babe ps told in Heaven — 

'•AiJD God remembered her." 



90 WILLIS'S POEMS 



THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A 
NEW-BORN CHILD. 

Room, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to heaven 1 
Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes, 

watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! 
But lo! while you delay to let her forth, 
Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss 
From lips all pale with agony, and tears, 
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life 
Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! oh mother 1 
But not that from this cup of bitterness 

A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. 

One look upon thy face ere thou depart ! 
My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! 
My daughter ! With thy birth has gush'd a spring 

1 knew not of — filling my heart with tears, 
And turning with strange tenderness to thee — 
A love — oh God ! it seems so — that must flow 
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me, 
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain 
Drawing me after thee ! And so, farewell ! 

'Tis a liarsh world, in which affection knows 

No place to treasure up its loved and lost 

Bat the foul grave ! Thou, who so late wast sleeping 



WILLIS'S POEMS, 91 

Warm iu the close fold of a mother's heart, 
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving 
But it was sent thee with some tender thouo-ht. 
How can I leave thee — here! Alas for man I 
The herb in its humiUty may fall 
And waste into the bright and genial air, 
While we — by hands that minister'd in life 
Nothing but love to us — are thrust away — 
The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms, 
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever 1 

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
A bank where I have lain in summer hours. 
And thought how little it would seem like death 
To sleep amid such loveliness. The bi'ook, 
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on. 
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone , 
The birds are never sil(>nt that build here. 
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters. 
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, 
AnJ far below, seen under arching leaves, 
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire. 
Pointing the living after thee. And this 
Seems like a comfort ; and, replacing now 
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
To whisper the same peace to her who lies — 
Robb'd of her cliild and lonely. 'Tis the work 
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, 
To bring the heart back from an infant gone. 



92 WILLIS'S POEMS 

Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot 
The images from all the silent rooms, 
And every sight and sound familiar to her 
UnJo its sweetest link — and so at last 
The fountain — that, once struck, must flow forever- 
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring 
Wakens the buds above thee, we will come, 
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave. 
Look on each other cheerfully, and say : — 
A child that we have loved has gone to heave?!, 
And by this gate of fiowers she pass'd away / 



ON THE DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE 

FROM HIS PAKISir, WHEN CIIOSKN PRESIDENT OF WABASH COLLEGE. 

Leave us not, man of prayer I Like Paul, hast Ihou 
" Served God with all humility of mind," 
DweUing among us, and "with many tears," 
"From house to house," "by night and day not ceasing," 
Hast pleaded thy blest errand. Leave us not ! 
Leave us not now ! The Sabbath-bell, so long 
Link'd with thy voice — the prelude to thy prayer — 
The call to us from heaven to come with thee 
Into the house of God, and from thy lips, 
Hear what had fall'n upon thy heart — will sound 



WILLIS'S POE MS. 93 

Lonely and mournfully when thou art gone ! 

Our prayers are in thy words — our hope in Christ 

Warm'd on thy lips — our darkling thoughts of God 

Follow'd thy loved call upward — and so knit 

Is all our worship with those outspread hands, 

And the imploring voice, which, well we knew, 

Sank in the ear of Jesus — that, with theo, 

The angel's ladder seems removed from siglit, 

And we astray in darkness ! — Leave us not ! 

Leave not the dead I They have lain calmly down — 

Thy comfort in their ears — believing well 

That when thine own more holy work was done, 

Tiiou wouldst lie down beside them, and be near 

When the last trump shall summon, to fold up 

Thy flock affrighted, and, with that same voice 

Whose whisper'd promises could sweeten death, 

Take up once more the interrupted strain, 

And wait Christ's coming, saying, '' Here am I, 

And those whom thou hast given me!" Leave not 

The old, w^ho, 'mid the gathering shadows, cling 

To their accustom'd staff, and know not how 

To lose thee, and so near the darkest hour. 

Leave not the penitent, whose soul may be 

Deaf to the strange voice, but awake to thino ! 

Leave not the mourner thou hast sooth' d — the heart 

Turns to its comforter again ! Leave not 

The child thou hast baptized! another's care 

May not keep bright, upon the mother's heart, 

The covenant seal; the infant's ear has caught 

Words it has strangely ponder'd from thy lips. 



94 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

And the remember'd tone may find again. 
And quicken for the harvest, the first seed 
Sown for eternity ! Leave not the child ! 

Yet if thou wilt — if, ''bound in spirit," thou 

Must go, and we shall see thy face no more, 

" The will of God be done !" We do not say 

Remember us — thou wilt — in love and prayer! 

And thou wilt be remember'd — by the dead, 

When the last trump awakes them— by the old, 

When, of the "silver cord,"whose strength thou knowest, 

The last thread fails — by the bereaved and stricJcen, 

When the dark cloud, wherein thou fouud'st a spot 

Broke by the light of mercy, lowers again — 

By the sad mother, pleading for her child. 

In murmurs difficult, since thou art gone — 

By all thou leavest, when the Sabbath-bell 

Brings us together, and the closing hymn 

Hushes our hearts to pray, and thy loved voice, 

That all our wants had grown to, (only thus, 

'Twould seem, articulate to God,) fcills not 

Upon our listening ears — remember'd thus — 

Bemember'd well — in all our holiest hours — 

Wi'.l be the f.ithful shepherd we have lost ! 

And ever wi h one prayer, for which our love 

Wi'.l find the pleading words, — that in the light 

Of heaven Ave may behold his face once more I 



WILLIS'S POEMS. ^^ 



BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 

'•The heart that wc have Iain near before our birth, is the only one 
that cannot forget that it has loved us."-P.ulip Slingsuv. 

My birth-day I— beloved mother ! 

My heart is with thee o'er the seas. 
I did not think to count another 

Before I wept upon thy knees— 
Before this scroll of absent years 
Was blotted with thy streaming tears. 

My own I do not care to check. 

■ I weep — albeit here alone — 

As if I hung upon thy neck, 

As if tiiy lips were on ray own, 
As if this fall, sad heart of mine, 
Were beating closely upon thine. 



Four weary years ! How looks she now 
What light is in those tender eyes? 

What trace of time has touched the bro\\ 
Whose look is borrow'd of the skies 

That listen to her nightly prayer? 

How is she changed since he was there 

Who sleeps upon her heart alway 

Whose name uponher lips is worn— 



96 W I L L I S ' S P O E M S . 

For whom the night seems made to pray — 
For whom she wakes to pray at morn — 
Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir, 
Who weeps these tears — to think of her! 

I know not if my mother's eyes 

Would find me changed in shghter things; 
I've wander'd beneath many skies, 

And tasted of some bitter springs ; 
And many leaves, once fair and gay, 
From youth's full flower have dropp'd away — 
But, as these looser leaves depart, 

The lessen'd flower gets near the core, 
Anl, when deserted quite, the heart 

Takes closer what was dear of yore — 
And yearns to those who loved it first — 
The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed. 

Dear mother ! dost thou love me yet ? 

Am I remember'd in thy home ? 
When those I love for joy are met, 

Does some one wish that I would come ? 
Thou dost — I am beloved of these ! 

But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er 
Night after night the Pleiades 

And finds the stars he found before — 
As turns the maiden oft her token — 

As counts the miser aye his gold — 
So, till life's silver cord is broken. 

Would I of thy fond love be told. 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 97 

My heart is full, mine eyes are wet — 
Dear mother ! dost thou love tliy long-lost wanderer yet ? 

Oh ! when the hour to meet again 

Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea, 
My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain, 

And, link by link, draws nearer thee — 
When land is hail'd, and, from the shore. 

Comes off the blessed breath of home, 
With fragrance from my mother's door 

Of flowers forgotten when I come — 
When port is gain'd, and, slowly now, 

The old familiar paths are pass'd, 
And, entering — unconscious how — 

I gaze upon thy face at last. 
And run to thee, all faint and weak, 
And feel thy tears upon my cheek — 

Oh ! if my heart break not with joy, 
The light of heaven will fairer seem ; 

And I shall grow once more a boy : 
And, mother ! — 'twill be like a dream 

That we were parted thus for years — 

And once that we have dried our tears. 

How will the days seem long and bright — 
To meet thee always with the morn, 

And hear thy blessing every night — 
Thy "dearest," thy "first-born !"— 
And be no mon;, as now, in a strange land, forlorn I 



98 WILLIS'S POEMS 



TO MY MOTHER FROM THE APENNINES. 

Motlier! dear mother! the feelings nnrst 

As I hung at thy bosoii), clung round thee first. 

Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 

'Tis the only one that will long remain: 

And as year by year, and day by day. 

Some friend still trusted drops away, 

Mother ! dear mother ! oh do.-it thou f<ee 

How the shortoi'd chain brings vie nearer thee ! 

Early rpr.MS. 

'Tis midnight the lone mountains on — 
The East is fleck'd with cloudy bar?, 

And, gliding through them one by one, 
The moon walks up her path of stars — 

The light upon her placid brow 

Received from fountains unseen now. 

And happiness is mine to-night, 

Thus springing from an unseen fount , 

And breast and brain are warm with light, 
With midnight round me on the mount — 

Its rays, like thine, fair Dian, flow 

From far that Western star below. 

Dear mother ! in thy love I live ; 

The life thou gav'st flows yet from thee — 
And, sun-like, thou hast power to give 

Life to the earth, air, sea, for me ! 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 99 

Though wandering, as this moon above, 
I'm darli without thy constant love. 



LINKS ON LEAVING EUROPE. 

Bright flag, at yonder tapering mast ! 

Fling out your field of azure blue , 
Let star and stripe be westward cast, 

And point as Freedom's eagle flew! 
Strain home! oh lithe and quivering spars! 
Point home, my country's flag of stars! 

The wind blows fair ! the vessel feels 

The pressure of the rising breeze, 
And, swiftest of a thousand keel^, 

She leaps to the careering seas ! 
Oh, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail. 

In whose white breast I seem to lie, 
How oft, when blew this eastern gale, 

I've seen your semblance in the sky, 
And long'd with breaking heart to flee 
On cloud-like pinions o'er the sea ! 

Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld ! 

I turn to watch our foamy track, 
And thoughts with which I first beheld 

Yon clouded line, come hurrying back , 



10.0 AVILLISS POEMS. 

My lips are dry with v^ague desire.-— 
My cheek once more is hot with joy — 

My pulse, ray brain, my soul on fire ! — 
Oh, what has changed that traveller- boy ! 

As leaves the ship this dying foam, 
His visions fade behind — his weary heart speeds home I 

Adieu, oh soft and southern shore. 

Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven — 
Those forms of beauty seen no more, 

Yet once to Art's rapt vision given I 
Oh, still th' enamor'd sun delays, 

And pries through fount and crumbling fane, 
To win to his adoring gaze 

Those children of the sky again! 
Irradiate beauty, such as never 

That light on other earth hath shone, 
Hath made this land her home forever ; 

And could I live for this alone — 
Were not my birthright brighter far 

Than such voluptuous slaves, can be — 
Held not the West one glorious star 

New-born and blazing for the free — 
Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet — 
Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forged 

Adieu, oh fatherland ! I see 

Your white cliflfs on th' horizon's rim, 

And though to freer skies I flee, 

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim I 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 101 

As knows the dove the task you give her, 

When loosed upon a foreign shore- 
As spreads the rain-drop in the river 

In which it may have flow'd before — 
To England, over vale and mountain, 

My fancy flew from climes more fair — 
My blood, that knew its parent fountain, 

Ran warm and fast in England's air. 

Dear mother ! in thy prayer to-night, 

There come new words and warmer tears I 
On long, long darkness breaks the light — 

Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! 
Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner! 

Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! 
The ear of heaven bends low to her! 

He comes to shore wlio sails Avith me 1 
The spider knows the roof unriven, 

While swings his web, though lightnings blaze— 
And by a thread still fast on heaven, 

I know my mother hves and prays! 

Dear mother ! when our lips can speak — 

When first our tears will let us see — 
When I can gaze upon thy cheek, 

And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me— 
'Twill be a p.istime little sad 

To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers 
Upon each other's forms have had — 

For all may flee,, so feeling lingers ! 



102 WILLISS POEMS. 

But there's a change, beloved mother I 

To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; 
I come — but with me comes another 

To share the heart once only mine ! 
Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, 

One star arose in memory's heaven — 
Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only — 

Water'd one flower with tears at even — 
Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left 

Is darken'd to lend light to ours! 
There are bright flowers of care bereft. 

And hearts — that languish more than flowers ! 
She was their hght — their very air- 
Room, mother ! in thy heart! place for her in thy prayer ! 



A TRUE IIVCIDENT. 

Upon a summer's morn, a southern mother 

Sat at the curtain'd window of an inn. 

She rested from long travel, and with hand 

Upon her cheek in tranquil happiness, 

Look'd where the busy travellers went and eame. 

And, like the shadows of the swallows flying 

Over the bosom of imrufifled water, 

Pass'd from her thoughts all objects, leaving there, 

As in tlie water's breast, a mirror'd heaven — 

For, in the porch beneath her, to and fro, 



w I L L 1 s s p () E M s. in:} 

A nurse walk'd, singing with her babe in arms, 
And many a passer-by look'd on the child 
And praised its wondrous beauty, but still on 
The old nurse troll' d her lullaby, and still, 
Blest through her depths of soul by light there shinmg, 
The mother in her revery mused on. 
But lo ! another traveller alighted ! 
And now, no more indifferent or calm, 
The mother's breath comes quick, and with the bloo<l 
Warm in her cheek and brow, she murmurs low, 
"Now, G-oi be praised 1 I am no more alone 
In knowing I've an angel for my child, — 
Cliance he to look on't only !" With a smile— 
The tribute of a beauty -loving heart 
To things from Grol new-moulded — would have pass'd 
The poet, as the infant caught his eye ; 
But suddenly he turn'd, and with his hand 
Upon the nurse's arm, he stay'd her steps. 
And gazed upon her burthen, 'Twas a child 
In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed, 
Something to waken wonder. Never sky 
In noontide depth, or softly-breaking dawn- 
Never the dew in new-born violet's cup, 
Lay so entranced in purity ! Not calm. 
With the mere hush of infancy at rest. 
The ample forehead, but serene with thought ; 
And by the rapt expression of the-lips, 
They seem'd scarce still from a cherubic hynm • 
And over all its countenance there breathed 
Benignity, majestic as we dream 



104 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

Aiigels wear ever, before God. With gaze 
Earnest and mournful, and liis eyelids warm 
With tears kept back, the poet kiss'd the child; 
And chasten'd at his heart, as having pass'd 
Close to an angel, went upon his way. 

Soon after, to the broken choir in heaven 
This cherub was recall' d, and now the mother 
Bethought her, in her anguish, of the bard — 
(Herself a far-off stranger, but his heart 
Familiar to the world,) — and wrote to tell him, 
The angel he had recognized that morn, 
Had fled to bliss again. The poet well 
Remeuiber'd that child's ministry to him; 
And of the only fountain that he knew 
For healing, he sought comfort for the mother. 
And thus he wrote : — 

Mourn not for the child from thy tenderness riven^ 
Ere stain on its purity fell ! 

To thy questioning heart, lo ! an answer from heaven , 

" Is IT WELL WITH THE CHILD ?" " It li WELL I" 



THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. 

They tell me thou art come from a far world, 
Bdbe of ray bosom ! that these little arms, 
Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings. 
Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er^- 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 105 

That through these fringed lids we see the soul 
Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home ; 
And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say, 
Wiiispei-ing to thee — and 'tis then I see 
Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven ! 

And what is thy far errand, my fair child ? 
Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, 
To find thy way through darkness home again ? 
Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky ? 
Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert, 
The cherub and the angel thou raayst be, 
A life's probation in this sadder world ? 
Art thou with memory of two things only, 
Music and light, left upon earth astray, 
And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, 
Look'd for with fear and trembling ? 

God ! who gavest 
Into my guiding hand this wanderer, 
To lead her through a world whose darkling paths 
I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me 
To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone ! 
I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — 
The angels who now visit her in dreams ! 
Bid them be near her pillow till in death 
The closed eyes look upon Thy face once m(^re ! 
And let the light and music, which the world 
Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense 
Hails with sweet recognition, be to her 
A voice to call her upward, and a lamp 
To lead her steps unto Thee ! 



106 WILLIS'S POEMS 



A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. 

I SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, 
Child of my love ! 1 ti-emble to believe 
That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue 
The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — 
A heart that, from its struggle with the world, 
Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, 
And, careless of the staining dust it brings. 
Asks for its idol ! Strange, that flowers of eartb 
Are visited by every air that stirs, 
And drink in sweetness only, while the child 
That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven, 
May take a blemish from the breath of love, 
And bear the blight Ibrever. 

I have wept 
With gladness at the gift of this fair child I 
My life is bound up in her. But, oh God I 
Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times 
Bears its sweet burthen ; and if thou hast given 
To nurture such as mine this spotless flower. 
To bring it unpolhited unto Thee, 
Take Thou its loi^e, I pray Thee ! Give it light — 
Though, following ttie sun, it turn from me ! — 
But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light 
Shining about her, draw me to my child ! 
And link us close, oh God, when near to heaven I 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 



10' 



ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HEU BLIND 
MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD. 
The green leaves as we pass 
Lay their light fingers on thee unaware, 
And by thy side the hazels cluster fair, 

And the low forest-grass 
Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind- 
Alas ! for thee, sweet mother ! thou art blind ! 

And nature is all bright; 
And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn. 
Like folded curtains from the day ai-e drawn, 

And evening's purple light 
Quivers in tremulous softness on the &=ky — 
Alas ! sweet mother ! for thy clouded eyr ! 

The moon's new silver shell 
Trembles above thee, and the stars float up. 
In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup 

Is pencill'd passing well, 
And the swift birds on glorious pinions flo.-— 
Alas ! sweet mother ! that thou canst not SL-t; 1 

And the kind looks of fiiends 
Peruse the sad expression in thy face. 
And the child stops amid the bounding race, 

And the tall stiipling bends 
Low to thine ear with duty unforgot — 
Alas! sweet mother! that thou seest them nor I 

But thou canst hear! and love 
May richly on a humiin tone be ponr'd, 



108 AV I LLI S'S POEMS. 

And the least cadence of a wliisper'd word 

A daughter's love may prove — 
And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, 
Albeit thou canst not see my face the while ! 

Yes, thou canst hear ! and He 
Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, 
To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung 

Heaven and earth and sea ! 
And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know — 
With but one sense the soul may overflow. 



CONTEMPLATION. 

" They are all up — the innumerable stars — 

And hold their place in heaven. My eyes have been 

Searching the pearly depths through which they spring 

Like beautiful creations, till I feel 

As if it were a new and perfect world, 

Waiting in silence for the word of God 

To breathe it into motion. There they stand. 

Shining in order, like a living hymn 

W^ritten in light, awaking at the breath 

Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him 

Who made them, with the harmony of spheres. 

I would I had an angel's ear to list 

That melody. I would that I might float 

Up in that boundless element, and feel 

Its ravishing vibration, like the pulse 

Beating in heaven ! My spirit is athirst 



i-^t^ 




AVILLIS'S POEMS. 109 

For music — rarer music ! I would bathe 
My soul in a serener atmosphere 
Than this ; I long to mingle with the flock 
Led by the ' living waters,' and to stray 
In the ' green pastures' of the better land ! 
When wilt thou break, dull fetter ! When shall I 
Gather my wings, and like a rushing thought 
Stretch onward, star by star, up into heaven I" 
Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whom 
Life had been like the witching of a dream. 
Of an untroubled sweetness. She was born 
Of a high race, and lay upon the knee, 
With her soft eyes perusing listlessly 
The fretted roof, or, on Mosaic floors, 
Grasp'd at the tesselated squares inwrought 
With metals curiously. Her childhood pass'd 
Like faery — amid fountains and green haunts — 
Trying her little feet upon a lawn 
Of velvet evenness, and hiding flowers 
In her sweet breast, as if it were a fair 
And pearly altar to crush incense on. 
He" youth — oh ! that was queenly ! She was like 
A dream of poetry that may not be 
Written or told — exceeding beautiful I 
And so came worshippers; and rank bow d down 
And breathed upon her heart-strings with the breath 
Of pride, and bound her forehead gorgeously 
With dazzling scorn, and gave unto her step 
A majesty — as if she trod the sea. 
And the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her! 




110 WILLISS POEJIS. 

And so she grew to woman — ^her mere look 
Strong as a monarch's signet, and her hand 
The ambition of a kingdom. From all this 
Turn'd her high heart away ! She had a mind, 
Deep and immortal, and it Avould not feed 
Oa pageantry. She thirsted for a spring 
or a serener element, and drank 
Philosophy, and for a little while 
Slie was allay' d, — till, presently, it turn'd 
Bitter within her, and her spirit grew 
Faint for undying waters. Then she came 
To the pure fount of God, and is athirst 
No more — save when the fever of the world 
Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes, 
Oat in the star-light quietness, and breathe 
A holy aspiration after Heaven. 



ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. 

How beautiful it is for man to die 
Upon the walls of Zion ! to be call'd, 
Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel. 
To put his armor off, and rest — in heaven 1 

The sun was setting on Jerusalem, 

The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and light 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 1 I I 

"Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque, 

Like molten silver. Every thing was fair; 

And beauty hung upon the painted fanes; 

Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave 

Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men 

Were in the busy streets, and nothing look'd 

Like wo, or suffering, save one small train 

Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by, 

And left no trace upon the busy throng. 

The sun was just as beautiful ; the shout 

Of joyous revelry, and the low hum 

Of stirring thousands rose as constantly ! 

Life look'd as winning ; and the earth and sky. 

And every thing seem'd strangely bent to make 

A contrast to that comment upon life. 

How wonderful it is that human pride 

Can pass that touching moral as it does — 

Pass it so frequently, in all the force 

Of mournful and most simple eloquence — 

And learn no lesson ! They bore on the dead, 

With the slow step of sorrow, troubled not 

By the rude multitude, save, here and there, 

A look of vague inquiry, or a curse 

Half-muttered by some haughty Turk, whose sleeve 

Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall. 

And Israel too pass'd on — the trampled Jew ! 

Israel I — who made Jerusalem a throne 

For the wide world — passed on as carelessly; 

Giving no look of interest to tell 

The shrouded dead was anvthinc: to her. 



112 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

Oh that they would be gather'd as a brood 
Is gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings 1 

They laid him down with strangers ; for his heme 

Was with the setting sun, and they who stood 

And look'd so steadfastly upon his grave, 

Were not his kindred; but they found him there. 

And loved him for his ministry of Christ. 

He had died young. But there are silver'd heads, 

Whose race of duty is less nobly run. 

His heart was with Jerusalem ; and strong 

As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties 

Religion makes so beautiful at home. 

He flung them from him in his eager race. 

And sought the broken people of his God, 

To preach to them of Jesus. There was one, 

Who was his friend and helper. One who went 

And knelt beside him at the sepulchre 

Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel. 

They had one spirit, and their hearts were knit 

With more than human love, God called him home. 

And he of whom I speak stood up alone. 

And in his broken-heartedness wrought on 

Until liis Master call'd him. 

Oh, is it not a noble thing to die 
As dies the Christian, with his armor on ! — 
What is the hero's clarion, though its blast 
Eing with the mastery of a world, to this? — 
What are the searching victories of mind — 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 11. *? 

The lore of vanisli'd ages? — What are all 
The trumpetings of proud humanity, 
To the short history of him who made 
His sepulchre beside the King of kings ? 



ON THE PICTURE OF A " CHILD TIRED OF PLAY.' 

Tired of play ! Tired of play ! 

Wiiat hast thou done this livelong day ! 

The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 

The sua is creeping up steeple and tree ; 

The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 

And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves , 

Twilight gathers, and day is done — 

How hast thou spent it — restless one ! 

Playing ? But what hast thou done beside 
To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
What promise of morn is lefl unbroken ? 
What kind word to thy playmate spoken? 
W^hom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven ? 
How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
What hast thou learn'd by field and hill, 
By greenwood path, and by singing rill ? 

There will come an eve to a longer day, 
That will find ihee tired — but not of play ! 
9* 



114 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

And*thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, 

With drooping limbs and aching brow, 

And wish the shadows would faster creep, 

And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 

Well were it then if thine aching brow 

Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 

Well for thee if thy lip could tell 

A tale like this, of a day spent well. 

If thine open hand hath relieved distress — 

If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness — 

If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, 

And humbled thy heart with penitence — 

If Nature's voices have spoken with thee 

With her holy meanings eloquently — 

If every creature hath won thy love, 

From the creeping worm to the brooding dovo- 

If never a sad, low-spoken Word 

Hath plead with thy human heart unheard — 

Then, when the night steals on, as now, 

It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 

And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest. 

Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 115 



A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. 

She bad been told that God made all the stars 
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood 
Watching the coming of the twilight on, 
As if it were a new and perfect world, 
And this were its first eve. She stood alone 
By the low window, with the silken lash 
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 
Half parted with the new and strange delight 
Of beauty that she could not comprehend. 
And had not seen before. The purple folds 
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
That look'd so still and delicate above, 
Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve 
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
Stood looking at the west with that half smile, 
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
Presently, in the edge of the last tint 
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 
To the faint golden mellowness, a star 
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, 
Her simple thought broke forth expressively — 
"Father! dear father! God has made a star !" 



116 WILLIS'S POEMS. 



ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 

She stood up in the meekness of a heart 

Resting on God, and held her fair young child 

Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes 

Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone 

To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. 

The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips 

Of the good man glow'd fervently with faith 

That it would be, even as he had pray'd, 

And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold 

Of Jesus. As the holy words went on 

Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears, 

Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon 

The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft 

With the baptismal water. Then I thought 

That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears 

Would be a deeper covenant— which sin 

And the temptations of the world, and death, 

Would leave unbroken — and that she would know 

In the clear light of heaven, how very strong 

The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been 

In leading its young spirit up to God. 



WILLIS'S POEMS. IIV 



REVERIE AT GLEXMARY. 

I HAVE enough, God ! My heart to-night 
Runs over with its fulness of content; 
And as I look out on the fragrant stars, 
And from the beauty of the night take in 
My priceless portion — yet myself no more 
Than in the universe a grain of sand — 
I feel His glory who could make a world, 
Yet in the lost depths of the wilderness 
Leave not a flower unfinish'd ! 

Rich, though poor ! 
My low-roofd cottage is this hour a heaven. 
Music is in it — and the song she sings. 
That sweet-voiced wife of mine, arrests the ear 
Of my young child awake upon her knee ; 
And with his calm eye on his master's face, 
My noble hound lies couchant — and all here — 
All in this little home, yet boundless heaven — 
Are, in such love as I have power to give, 
Blessed to overflowing. 

Thou, who look'st 
Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve, 
Knowest its fulness, as thou dost tlie dew 
Sent to the hidden violet by Thee ; 
And, as that flower, from its unseen abode, 



118 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

Sends its sweet breath up, duly, to the sky, 
Changing its gift to incense, so, oh G-od ! 
May the sweet drops that to my humble cup 
Find their far way from heaven, send up, to Thee, 
Fragrance at thy throne welcome ! 



TO A CITY PIGEON. 

Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove I 
Thy daily visits have touch'd my love. 
I watch thy coming, and list the note 
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, 

And my joy is high 
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. 

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves, 

And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves .-' 

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street, 

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? 

How canst thou bear 
This noise of people — this sultry air ? 

Thou alone of the feather'd race 

Dost look unscared on the human face; 

Thou alone, with a wing to flee. 

Dost love with man in his haunts to be ; 

And the " gentle dove" 
Has become a name for trust and love. 



AVILLIS'S POEMS. 119 

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! 
Thou'rt named with childhood's earhest word ! 
Thoa'rt link'd with all that is fresh and wild 
In the prisou'd thoughts of the city child ; 

And thy glossy wings 
Are its brightest iniage of moving things. 

It is no light chance. Thau art set apart, 
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, 
To stir the love for the bright nnd fair 
That else were sealM in this crowded air ; 

I sometimes dream 
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. 

Come then, ever, when daylight leaves 
The page I read, to my humble eaves, 
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout^ 
And murmur thy low sweet music out ! 

I hear and see 
Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee I 



THE BELFRY PIGEOIV. 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
In summer and winter that bird is there, 
Out and in with the morning air : 



120 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

I love to see him track the street, 
With his wary eye and active feet ; 
And I often watch him as he springs, 
Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd, 
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last. 
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note. 
And the trembUng throb in its mottled throat; 
There's a human look in its swelling breast, 
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
And I often stop with the fear I feel — 
He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — 

Chime of the hour or funeral knell — 

The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 

When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon- 

When the sexton cheerly rings for noon — 

When the clock strikes clear at morning light — 

When the child is waked with '' nine at night" — 

When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air. 

Filling the spirit with tones of prayer — 

Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 

He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd, 

Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 

He takes the time to smooth his breast, 

Then drops again with filmed eyes, 

And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 

Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 



WILLIS'S POEMS. 121 

With wings to fly to wood and glen, 

Thy lot, hke mine, is cast with men ; 

And daily, with unwilling feet, 

I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 

But, unliko me, when day is o'er, 

Thou canst dismiss the world and soar, 

Or, at a half-felt wish for rest. 

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 

And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 



SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
[written for a picture.! 

I LOVE to look on a scene like this. 

Of wild and careless play. 
And persuade myself that I am not old, 

And my looks are not yet gray ; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 

And makes his pulses fly. 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for fourscore years ; 

And they say that I am old, 
That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, 

And ray years are well nigh told. 
10 



122 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

It is very true ; it is very true ; 

I'm old, and "I bide my time;" 
But my heart vv^ill leap at a scene like this, 

And I half renew my prime. 

Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 

In the midst of your merry ring ; 
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 

And the rush of the breathless swing, 
I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 

And I whoop the smother'd call. 
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 

And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come, 

And I shall be glad to go ; 
I'or the world at best is a weary place. 

And my pulse is getting low ; 
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 

In treading its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 

To see the young so gay. 



THE SABBATH 



It was a pleasant morning, in the time 
When the leaves fall — and the bright sun shone out 
As when the morning stars first sang together — 
So quietly and calmly fell his light 






1 €'4':r 




WILLIS'S POEMS. 123 

Upon a world at rest. There was no leaf 

In motion, and the loud winds slept, and all 

Was still. The lab'ring herd was grazing 

Upon the hill-side quietly — uncalled 

By the harsh voice of man ; and distant sound, 

Save from the murmuring waterfall, came not 

As usual on the ear. One hour stole on, 

And then another of the morning, calm 

And still as Eden ere the birth of man. 

And then broke in the Sabbath chime of bells— 

And the old man, and his descendants, went 

Together to the house of God. I join'd 

The well-apparell'd crowd. The holy man 

Rose solemnly, and breathed the prayer of faith — 

And the gray saint, just on the wing for heaven — 

And the fair maid — and the bright-hair'd young man — 

And child of curling locks, just taught to close 

The lash of its blue eye the while ; — all knelt 

In attitude of prayer — and then the hymn, 

Sincere in its low melody, went up 

To worship God. 

The white-hair'd pastor rose 
And look'd upon his flock — and with an eye 
That told his interest, and voice that spoke, 
In tremulous accents, eloquence like Paul's, 
He lent Isaiah's fire to the truths 
Of revelation, and persuasion came 
Like gushing waters from his lips, till hearts 
Unused to bend were soften'd, and the eye 
Unwont to weep sent forth the willing tear. 



124 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

I went my way — but as I went, I felt 
How well it was that the world-weary soul 
Should have its times to set its burden down. 



DEDICATION HYMN. 

[written to be sung at the consecration of IIANOVEn-STKEKT 
CHURCH, BOSTON.] 

The perfect world by Adam trod, 
Was the first temple — built by God — 
His fiat laid the corner-stone. 
And heaved its pillars, one by one. 

He hung its starry roof on high — 

The broad illimitable sky ; 

He spread its pavement, green and bright, 

And curtain'd it with morning light. 

The mountains in their places stood — 
The sea — the sky — and "all was good;" 
And when its first pure praises rang, 
The " morning stars together sang.'' 

Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea 
And earth and sky a house for thee ; 
But in thy sight our olBfring stands — 
A humbler temple, " made with hands." 



WILLIS'S POEilS 



HYMN. 



12; 



[WF.ITTEN TO BE SUNG AT THE DEDICATIOX OF TUE IIOP8E OF INDUSTRY 
AND HOME FOK THE FKIENDLbSS, DECEMBEF., 1S4S.] 

When God, to shield from cold and storm, 
Gave trees to build and fire to warm, 
H(; did not mark for each his part, 
But gave to each a human heart. 

Each heart is told the poor to aid,— 
Not told as thunder makes afraid — 
But by a small voice whispering there: 
Find thou for God the sufferers share. 

Oh, prompting faint, to careless view, 
For work that angels well might do ! 
But wisely thus is taught below, 
Quick pity for another's wo. 

The world is stored— enough for all 
Is scatter'd wide 'twixt hut and hall ; 
And those who feast or friendless roam, 
Alike from God received a home. 

Each houseless one demands of thee. 
Can aught thou hast the poor man's he 1 
And pity breathes response divine. 
Take what I have from God thafs thine. 
10* 



126 WILLIS'S POEMS. 

For child, for woman's fragile form, 
More harsh the cold, more wild the storm ; 
But most they bless the shelt'ring door, 
Whom dark temptations urge no more, 

A Home for these, '' ., to-day. 

For blessing at thy feet we lay ; 
And may its shelter, humbly given. 
Be but a far-off door to heaven. 



^ f 




mw;^ 









*!:? 



